Queen of Cups
by MsBarrows
Summary: The adventures of Arren Mahariel and his ever-growing party continue; they've successfully passed the Landsmeet, but there's still a lot of things that need doing. Owen Amell and Zevran find their relationship getting even more complicated.
1. Moving Day

**Been meaning to get back to the Arren & Co. AU for a while now, especially as it's been over a year since "Knave of Swords" ended with the party having successfully gotten past the Landsmeet and the end of the DA:O portion of the AU rapidly approaching. But every time I think I'll finally finish off something and be able to get back around to it, some new idea blitzes my brain and jumps into the queue ahead of it. Enough of that! Too many WIPs already in progress or not, it's time to let Arren and his motley crew reach the front of the line at last.**

* * *

Their farewell with Arl Eamon was rather strained. Arren and the Arl were both being exquisitely polite with each other as Arren's group prepared to depart the Arl's estate, but there was a certain thunderous-nous about the Arl's expression that made it clear that he was still very unhappy about the outcome of the Landsmeet, and Anora's confirmation as Queen of Ferelden. Alistair managed to look solemn as he said his own farewells to the Arl, but as soon as they walked out the gate to the Denerim market, a relieved grin lit his face.

"I am so glad that's over with," Alistair said fervently. "So where's this townhouse, anyway?"

"Not far from Bann Teagan's townhouse," Arren said. "Where we need to stop first anyway, and pick up Fergus. He'd like to see what condition the place is in, now that the Queen has returned all the Cousland properties to him."

They all knew the route to Teagan's house by now, even Tria having been there once. She walked in the centre of their group, with Wynne and Mara to either side of her and Owen and Zevran behind her, looking much calmer about the long walk than she had the other day. Arren and Morrigan led the way, with Alistair, the two mabari, Sten, and Oghren behind him, while Shale brought up the rear. All of them carried their packs of belongings. It was quite the procession, but thankfully they'd left the estate early enough in the day that the streets weren't particularly crowded yet.

Teagan, Gemma and Fergus were standing talking together outside of Teagan's townhouse when Arren and his group arrived, and welcomed them with smiles. "Will you be accompanying us as well?" Arren asked Teagan.

He smiled, and shook his head. "No. I'm escorting Gemma to the palace to visit with the Queen. We thought we'd wait to say hello to you all before departing," he added, smiling warmly at the two Grey Wardens and their group of companions. "You'll be staying quite close to here, so let me take the opportunity to invite you all over for dinner this evening; Fergus isn't sure if the kitchens at the townhouse he's loaning you will be in usable condition or not, and I'd be more than happy to enjoy your company again."

Arren smiled, and gave Bann Teagan a deep cross-armed bow. "We would be delighted to join you," he said. "Thank you very much for the offer."

"Excellent! Than we shall expect to see you this evening," Teagan said.

That sorted out, Arren's group continued on, Fergus walking alongside him and Morrigan, the two talking amiably. It was a very short walk to the Cousland townhouse; an older holding of the Cousland family, Fergus explained to Arren, acquired when the family had been considerably larger, a generation or two prior to the occupation. It had of course been taken by the Orlesians and given over to a noble of the occupying forces; it had changed hands several times during the occupation, and been returned, along with other Cousland holdings, during the restoration following the end of the war.

"As the holders of the Terynir of Highever we of course have a much larger estate near the castle; the townhouse was mainly used as a dower house, before the occupation, and has been little-used by us since the restoration, though my mother often preferred to stay there when making trips by herself to Denerim, rather than having to travel with a large enough train of servants to open up the estate. And Orana and I made use of it when we'd first returned to Ferelden after our marriage, and wanted to enjoy some privacy for a while," he added regretfully. "I hate to think of what state it must be in after being occupied by Howe's soldiers over the last year."

They turned a corner onto a side-street. The townhouses here were larger and finer than the ones that lined the street Bann Teagan lived on; they also had considerably larger grounds, each neatly fenced off from its neighbour with high, smoothly-plastered walls. Fergus led them to the second house from the corner. It was a tall, rather elegant-looking building, with the somewhat haphazard appearance of a something that had been added onto several times over the many years of its existence. Most of it was built of good solid stone, though the uppermost floors and several of the projecting bits were of half-timbered construction.

The gate to the small courtyard in front stood open. The yard itself still showed signs of its recent occupation by Howe's men; what must have been lawn and flowerbeds once was now trampled mud with a few archery butts and practise dummies scattered about. The front door was closed, the few steps leading up well begrimed with mud. Fergus a pair of large keys from his belt pouch, handing one to Arren and then using the other to unlock the door and let it swing open.

It was clear immediately that Howe's men had made little effort to keep the place clean; mud was tracked all over the stone floor of the entryway, and from there to elsewhere in the house. It was equally clear that the house had been ransacked; there were paler patches on the walls where hangings or paintings of some kind had been removed, and the hallway was empty of the sort of decorative furnishing – rugs, small tables, decorative objects and the like – that could be expected to be on display in the entryway to one of the homes of the richest noble family of the realm.

Fergus was frowning as he looked around, clearly unhappy about the condition of the place. "Let's take a look around," he said. "Hopefully there's nothing worse here than mud and missing furniture."

He led the way on a tour of the ground floor; what had been a sitting room, a small library, and a large dining room, and were now echoing, empty rooms, their floors tracked with mud and dry grass. What little furniture remained had been badly mistreated, once-polished surfaces now dull with scuffs and scarred from blows, some of it reduced to kindling. The kitchens were in little better condition, still retaining most of the basic furnishings, but smelling of rotting scraps of food and buzzing with flies, the soldiers having been no more given to cleanliness here than elsewhere.

"This will need a _very_ thorough cleaning," Wynne said, looking around the room with a look of distaste on her face.

"Perhaps some fire magic to purify it," Morrigan said, in an only half-joking tone that won her an amused look from most of the party.

"It will certainly have to be near the top of our list of priorities for cleaning. Is there a well somewhere, Fergus? We should make sure we have clean water available first of all," Arren said.

Fergus nodded. "There's a well in a small courtyard out back of the kitchen – through that door – and both a cistern and a boiler up in the attic spaces."

"A boiler?" Zevran asked, interest clear in his voice.

Fergus grinned. "Yes, most of the house is plumbed. Including the kitchen," he added, pointing out a tap in one corner over a drain set in the floor, the tap high enough up that even the largest of pots could be filled from it. "Only a cold water tap in here and in the servant's quarters, but the living quarters have both cold and hot water in the bathing chambers, as long as the boiler is kept filled and heated anyway."

"Might want to get someone in to check it if it's been allowed to go dry or go out," Oghren spoke up. "They can be a bit finicky to restart safely. And don't look at me for it, I was warrior caste, not a maker. I know just enough about them to be dangerous," he added with a grin.

Arren smiled, and exchanged a look with Fergus. "We'll keep your advice in mind," he agreed.

"Speaking of living quarters, should we not go make our selections of rooms? Judging by what we have seen so far, we will all have considerable work to do just to sleep comfortably this night," Morrigan pointed out.

Arren nodded. "That sounds like a good idea – no need for all of us to accompany Fergus around. Fergus, is there anything upstairs you want to check for before we begin moving in?"

Fergus frowned and shook his head, lips a thin line. "Nothing I can think of offhand – it's clear that Howe and his men carted off or destroyed almost everything that was here. There is a vault in the cellars and a smaller one off of the master suite upstairs I'll need to check, but I'll be surprised if they were missed – Howe knew of their existence, being such a close friend of my father's," he added bitterly.

Arren nodded. "Morrigan, can you see that our things make it to the master suite?" he asked, and handed over his pack to her at her nod. "The rest of you, divvy up the remaining rooms among yourselves."

They all nodded or made sounds of agreement, and headed off upstairs to investigate the upper reaches of the townhouse, while Arren and Fergus continued on with their tour of the building.

* * *

Oghren announced he had no desire to climb any more stairs in "this blighted heap of poorly-stacked rocks" as soon as they reached the top of the first set of stairs, and threw open the closest door, peering into the small room thus revealed. "Bed, fireplace... look, even a window. Mine!" he said, and stumped into the room, tossing his pack onto the narrow bed – more than large enough for the dwarf – along one wall.

The group of them wandered through the upper floors of the building, peering into rooms. Only a few of them had any of the original furniture left; most had been stripped bare, the fine furnishings replaced with camp cots for Howe's soldiers to sleep in. Most of the rooms were filthy, the floors coated in mud and moldering straw, what little bedding had been left behind smelling of old sweat. The soldiers had apparently made little if any effort to keep the place clean. The bathing chambers were especially foul, the earth closets overfull and stinking.

The master suite was one of the few habitable sets of rooms in the place. It had still been stripped of anything of value that was small enough to be carried away, but most of the furnishings were huge pieces of age-darkened old wood, too heavy to easily remove, and presumably they, and the rooms, had been the purview of one of the officers; the rooms were actually clean, and the furniture in far better condition than anything else they'd yet seen in the house.

"We should all leave our things in here for now," Morrigan said firmly. "And plan to share these rooms tonight; we will likely need most of the day just to render the kitchen usable, much less make any real start on cleaning out quarters for everyone."

Wynne nodded. "That sounds sensible. Though as many people as we are, I'm sure we don't need everyone to work on the kitchens; perhaps some of you big strong men could undertake the job of removing all the cots and soiled bedding? That would take a good step toward improving the atmosphere in here."

"We'll have to ask Fergus what needs to be done about the earth closets," Morrigan said, frowning and wrinkling her nose.

"Oh, I know that," Alistair spoke up. "The err... the buckets need to be taken off and the slops in them emptied out. There should be some large lidded jars out back somewhere to dump them into, and a man comes around with a cart each morning to take away the filled jars and leave empty ones." He flushed a little when everyone stared at him. "I _was_ a servant until I was ten, you know. And Arl Eamon's estate still uses the same system, since dumping in the canals was outlawed years ago, though he keeps saying he's going to get the estate properly connected to the new sewers one of these years. Anyway, it's going to mean a lot of very smelly hauling. I'll help with it," Alistair added. "It's no worse than mucking out stables and kennels. Well, not too much worse, anyway," he added, making a face "Different smells."

Sten, Shale, and Owen also agreed to help with the carrying out and emptying, all being large and strong enough to manage carrying the heavy buckets, and Shale in particular being unaffected by any qualms related to the smell or the material in question. The remaining mages, Zevran, and Tria headed back downstairs to deal with the kitchen clean-up, dragging Oghren out of his bedroom en route. He took one look at the mess in the kitchen, pointed out he was too short to be of much use cleaning the counters, tables, and shelves, and escaped out the back door.

Dealing with the slops was a nasty, smelly job, even with vinegar-soaked rags tied over their mouth and noses to block the worst of the smell. Shale was given the especially unpleasant job of emptying out the heavy buckets into the slops jars, then rinsing them clean, and Oghren was assigned to haul water to her to use in the cleaning, as well as stacking the cleaned buckets to dry.

Once all the buckets had been carried outside, the three men switched to removing the cots and bedding. The cots, simple folding wooden frames with a rope network strung between the two side rails, they piled in one corner of the yard, while the bedding was heaped in the small kitchen courtyard, near a small shed that was set up with a boiler and tubs for doing laundry.

It was early afternoon before they finished all the hauling. There was still a considerable amount of washing that needed to be done, but they were all tired and hungry. All three men and the dwarf elected to make use of one of the bathing chambers to give themselves as thorough a wash as they could manage with a bucket of cold water and some lye soap; none of them complained about the harshness of the soap, since it at least left them feeling clean again.

The others had made sizable inroads on cleaning up the kitchen; the rotting food scraps were all gone, consigned to a compost heap in a corner of the gardens. The fireplaces had been cleared of their accumulations of ash, and many of the pots and pans had already been cleaned, with more sitting filled with water to soften the crusts of old food within them.

Wynne had fetch their own clean and much-used stew pot from upstairs at some point during the day, and had made soup out of some of their remaining supplies. The three men were glad to accept bowls full of it, and sit down with the others to rest for a while.

"Where's Zevran?" Owen asked after a minute, frowning as he noticed the elf was missing.

"He's outside helping Shale to wash off," Wynne said. "The golem is badly in need of a cleaning before it comes back indoors."

"He's scrubbing a golem's back?" Alistair asked, grinning in amusement.

"Yes," Jowan said, and smiled crookedly. "Apparently he felt that helping a golem to bathe was less injurious to his reputation than scrubbing pots."

That made almost all of them grin.

"Where's Arren?" Alistair asked, noticing that their leader was also absent. "Cleaning between Shale's toes?"

Morrigan sniffed, trying not to look amused and failing. "No," she said. "He went off somewhere with Fergus – a woman arrived, that Ser Cauthrien, with a note from the Queen and a key. Apparently there's a warehouse down near the docks that is full of Howe's ill-gotten gains. Fergus has gone to look for and claim anything that is a Cousland possession so that it can be returned."

"And Arren went with him because...?" Alistair asked.

"Because they were in the middle of a conversation which neither saw any reason to end. Anyway, Arren said he'd be back here before it was time to go over to Bann Teagan's for dinner. How is work progressing upstairs?" Morrigan asked, changing the subject.

Owen made a face. "It's progressing. We've dealt with the worst of the mess, but everything will need a very thorough scrubbing and rinsing – and likely a good airing as well – before many of the rooms will be habitable again. And we'll need to do a laundry, if we intend to use any of the bedding we just hauled out."

"Well, we don't need everyone for cleaning pots this afternoon... some of us could help with the scrubbing. And start a laundry going," Wynne pointed out. "I'd prefer to remain working in the kitchen; scrubbing out pots is kinder on old bones than sweeping and washing floors, or doing laundry."

They quickly divvied up the jobs, Wynne, Morrigan, and Jowan to continue work on cleaning the kitchen, Mara, Tria and Oghren to start doing a laundry, while Alistair, Owen, Sten, and Zevran would beginning cleaning the rooms upstairs now that they'd been emptied of most of the soldiers' detritus.

Zevran returned from outside just in time to hear what job he was ending up with, and made a face. "Well, I suppose it's better than washing pots, though not by much."

They would, they decided, start with the lowest floors and work their way up. It would likely take several days to get the house mucked out, but as Wynne pointed out that would at least give them something productive to occupy themselves with while waiting for all the political manoeuvring to be completed so that they move on to the more important task of fighting the Blight.

When Arren finally returned, he was very pleased to see the amount of progress they'd all made on cleaning up the house. He himself had clearly been doing more than just standing around; his clothing was smudged with dust and cobwebs. "Fergus has located a lot of the furnishings that used to belong here, as well as a considerable number of items that were pilfered from the larger Cousland estate. He's given inventories to the guards, and as soon as everything has been released back to him, he plans to hire workers to deliver everything back where it belongs. That will likely take a few days, so we'll have to make do with whatever cots and bedding are already here for now."

"It will be easier to clean up with so little furniture around, at least," Morrigan pointed out.

"And speaking of cleaning up, we should begin getting ready to go over to Bann Teagan's for dinner," Arren pointed out. "Are any of the bathing chambers in usable condition yet, or will we be needing wash basins?"

"We're cleaned three well enough to bathe in, and the one off of the master suite was still in usable condition," Alistair said. "Cold water only, until the boiler has been seen to, but that should suffice for now."

Arren nodded, then grinned. "The cold water should help prevent any tendency toward lingering, at least," he said. They all headed upstairs to wash and change, looking forward to their dinner.


	2. Furnishings

"Owen... come and see this," Zevran called.

Owen looked up from mopping the corridor floor. Zevran, who was supposed to be mopping as well, was nowhere in sight. "Where are you?" he asked.

"Here," Zevran said, and leaned out of a doorway at the far end of the hallway. "Come see this; I _like_ this room," he said, and vanished again.

Owen's eyebrows lifted, but he put aside the mop he'd been using, and straightened up, rubbing distractedly at the small of his back – sore from using a too-short mop, not to mention all the lifting and carrying of the last few days – and went to see.

It was an odd-shaped room, occupying the attic space of a lower portion of the building. The lower potion was L-shaped, wrapped around the small kitchen courtyard in back of the building, and as a result the room was L-shaped as well, with the doorway at the top of the long stroke. A second doorway was in the left wall just inside; judging by what little Owen could see through it, a bathing chamber. The right-hand wall opened out into a dormered area with a fireplace, doubtless sharing its chimney with other fireplaces lower in the house, flanked by a pair of narrow windows. There was another, wider window in the end wall of the foot of the L. The ceiling was steeply pitched throughout, dropping down to a knee wall at either side of the otherwise triangular space, the peak of the ceiling crossed at regular intervals by a web of rafters. The space was tall and wide; the horizontal cross-beams of the rafters high enough to give even Owen plenty of head-space, while the knee-walls ran almost as high as Zevran's shoulder. The walls and ceiling were covered in a plain white plaster that had darkened to a mottled pale cream colour with age; the exposed beams were an age-darkened brown, the floor well-worn planks of the same dark wood. The result was a surprising light and airy space.

Zevran was lounging on the floor in the foot of the L, propped up on his elbows, his ankles crossed. He grinned widely at Owen. "Imagine this room with a nice large four-posted bed here for us, and some seating over near the fireplace. There's even enough room for a table and chairs, if we wished."

Owen snorted. "We're only staying here for a few days, a couple of weeks at most, not moving in permanently."

Zevran shrugged. "That is no reason not to be comfortable. And I think we could be very loud in here before it would begin to risk disturbing the other inhabitants of the house," he added, lids dropping half-closed as he gave Owen a rather smouldering look. A look that reminded Owen of just how long it had been since they'd last had any real time together, or any privacy, most of their group still being camped out together in the master suite. He studied the recumbent assassin and wished there was time to spend together _now_, here, even without benefit of a bed.

Zevran grinned, seeming to divine the direction of his thoughts, and lifted one foot, stretching it out to curl his toes against the side of Owen's ankle, then slid his foot up a little. Owen drew a deep breath, his hands flexing. Maybe they could _make_ time...

"Owen? Zevran? Where are you two?" Alistair's voice called from the hallway.

Zevran sighed, then bounced to his feet, giving Owen an apologetic shrug. "In here, Alistair," he called, and walked back to the door, Owen following along behind.

Alistair poked his head in the door before they even reached it, and glanced around the room. "Nice!" he exclaimed, then looked at the two of them again. "Teryn Fergus has sent word that the furniture will be arriving later today; Arren's said we're all to pick out the rooms we want and figure out what we'd like in the way of furnishings. Fergus said he'll worry about redecorating the place properly later, so for now it doesn't really matter what goes where; we can just furnish as we like, and the leftovers can be stacked in some of the unclaimed rooms."

"I like this space," Zevran said again, and turned to look enquiringly at Owen.

Owen shrugged. "Good enough for me, too. I suppose we'll claim this room, then."

Alistair nodded. "Jowan and I are taking a room down the hall; it's got a really nice view toward the river. He's just finishing off cleaning it out. We'd all better go downstairs and tell Arren what rooms we want."

The group of them headed downstairs, picking up Jowan along the way. Everyone was gathering in the kitchen. They took their places on some of the stools surrounding the long work-table that served them as dining table, meeting table, and bar. It was close enough to mid-day that Wynne – who was in charge of the kitchen – had decided to set out lunch. She was slicing and buttering bread, while Tria has busily cutting up a wheel of cheese into wedges. Zevran went over and joined them, making short work of slicing up some roast meat from the day before. They were soon all there, and all supplied with food and plenty of good hot tea. Claiming the rooms went quickly and easily, there being far more rooms in the house than they had people, and a number of them preferring to share rather than claiming rooms of their own.

Wynne and Mara had claimed a set of rooms near to the library; its built-in shelves were currently empty, but they had hopes that some of the room's missing contents would prove to be among the recovered items. Sten had taken a pair of adjoining ground-floor rooms, originally a sitting room and the dining hall, which he felt would provide him with both a sleeping area and an indoor room sufficiently large to practise his sword-work indoors. Shale didn't much care for being inside the house, and had announced its intention of making the kitchen courtyard and the denuded back yard its home while they lingered here.

Oghren had his small room on the second floor that he'd claimed the first day; Arren and Morrigan would continue sharing the master suite on the same floor. Jowan and Alistair's smaller suite was on the next floor up, which was also where the rooms Owen and Zevran wanted were. Above that floor was the servant's quarters, which none of them had any interest in.

Tria expressed no preference at all about where she would sleep; she seemed to think nothing of simply curling up and napping wherever she happened to be when she became tired, and had needed to be led up to the master suite their first couple of nights in the house. "She can stay with Mara and I if she likes," Wynne volunteered.

"It might be better to give her a room on the floor where Jowan and I are," Owen spoke up. "We need to start work on doing what we can to aid her now that she's in better condition physically."

"Physical distance doesn't really make any difference in what I need to do," Jowan spoke up. "Though I suppose it would make it easier to monitor her reactions if we're not on entirely separate floors."

"I don't like the idea of Tria being left on her own yet," Mara said, frowning slightly, then turned to her. "But it really should be you that makes the choice, Tria, not one of us. Would you like to stay with Wynne and I? Or have a room of your own?"

Tria's head tilted to the side as she considered the question. She smiled and shrugged, her usual reaction of late when asked a question she either couldn't or wouldn't answer.

After their luncheon was over they scattered around the house again, everyone wanting to make sure that their chosen room or rooms were fully cleaned and ready for the furnishings to be brought in. The first cartload arrived within the hour, and another two not far behind, as well as a crew of workmen to unload the carts and carry everything indoors. Within a very short time the stairs were busy with groups of people carrying furniture, chests, and crates up to either deliver to the rooms they were planning on using, or store in the unclaimed ones.

Fergus arrived midway through the afternoon, and said the townhouse was much less chaotic than the Cousland estate, where deliveries had been going on since early that morning. "I've left Gemma to sort out where everything goes there – she's got a much better memory than I as to what used to be in which rooms," he said with a smile. "I've hired a dwarf to come inspect and fire up the boiler here; he should arrive early tomorrow morning. Let me know if he doesn't show up by noon."

It was late evening before everything had been carried in and put away somewhere, and they were all tired and sore from helping with carting things upstairs, not to mention arranging things in their chosen rooms. All of them were looking forward to sleeping in rooms of their own for a while again, not to mention the luxury of beds, bedrolls and tents having played a much larger part in their travels than inns or houses.

They ate a late supper, a chicken stew that Wynne and Tria had made that afternoon, neither of them being up to helping with moving around heavy furniture. There was fresh-baked bread to go with it, as well as ale. They all headed off to bed early, some because they were tired, and several of them because they were looking forward to making use of the privacy they once again had.


	3. Boilers and Blood Magic

They had plans, when they retired to their new bed that first night. But days of cleaning house, nights of poor sleep on uncomfortable cots in a room full of others, a day spent carrying furniture, mattresses, bedding and boxes up countless flights of stairs, carrying up their own packs as well, making the bed, unpacking and putting away their things; it all caught up with them once they had actually reached that bed. Their plans had come to nothing in the end, the pair of them feeling too tired to do much more than kiss a time or two, grope each other a little, then regretfully decide on just _sleep_ tonight.

They both slept very soundly; slept in as well, the deep soft mattress and warm bedding, the quiet, allowing them a soundness of sleep they hadn't had since leaving Arl Eamon's estate. The sun was streaming in the windows from halfway up the sky when Owen finally woke, Zevran still soundly asleep beside him. He smiled, watching the elf rest. He looked so much younger when he slept, the faint lines on his face smoothed out. Not for the first time, Owen found himself wondering just how much older than himself the elf might be. Older, and more experienced. _Far_ more experienced.

Contemplating that, and how even with all his skill and experience the elf was willing to submit to him, excited him in ways he didn't have words to express. His body, predictably, responded in its own quite expressive way. He shifted closer to the elf, pressing up against him, curling around him. They fit together neatly, chest to back, groin to buttocks, thighs to back of legs.

Zevran chuckled, a low, knowing sound, and shifted his buttocks against Owen's partial erection. "I take it you're feeling much more well-rested this morning?" he asked, voice rough from sleep but filled with amusement.

"Mmmm, seems like it," Owen agreed, hooking one arm over Zevran's side, spreading his hand out against the elf's smooth warm skin before sliding it downwards. He smirked, and nuzzled into tousled golden hair. "It seems you are too."

Another chuckle, and Zevran wiggled backwards to press even more explicitly against Owen. "Shall we do something about this, then?"

"I think so," Owen said softly, then took the tip of Zevran's ear between his teeth, gently worrying at it. That drew an approving noise from the elf, and the motion of his hand an even louder one. He smiled, tonguing at the tip of the ear, then licked and nibbled his way slowly down the edge of it, his hand continuing is slow tugging motion, his own erection hardening rapidly.

He was contemplating what he wished to do this morning, whether merely continuing to a very simple completion for both of them, or something more involved, when there was a loud knock at their door. Zevran cursed quietly; he groaned, burying his face in the elf's hair, then muttered a curse as well.

"Owen? Zevran? Are you awake yet?" Wynne's voice called from the hallway.

"Yes, Wynne, we are," Zevran called back, his voice admirably calm and unconcerned. "What is your wish?"

"The dwarf to light the boiler is here, I need someone to show him where it is; I remember that Teryn Fergus said it was in the attics somewhere, but I don't know where the entrance is, and everyone else has gone out already."

"We'll be out shortly," Owen called.

"Thank you, dears," Wynne called back. "He's waiting in the kitchen downstairs."

"Do you have any idea where the boiler is?" Owen asked Zevran as they rose and began dressing.

"Yes, actually... I found the entrance to the the attics two days ago, and spent time exploring them. Much dust and nothing of value."

Owen snorted. "And if there'd been anything of value?"

"We are Fergus' guests here, I would have let Arren know to tell him," Zevran said seriously, before pulling on his tunic. He grinned at Owen after his head emerged from the neck opening. "Just because I am a rogue does not mean I am a thief. Except when I need to be."

"Or want to be."

"There is that," Zevran agreed, and led the way downstairs.

* * *

The dwarf, a third generation surfacer, he affably volunteered as he looked over the cistern and the boiler, clearly took his job quite seriously. He kept up a steady stream of talk as he worked, not asking anything, or even waiting for anyone else to make a contribution, just a steady flow of words. He checked a number of fittings to be sure they were still secure, replaced something he said was a corroded release valve – words that meant nothing to Owen or Zevran – undid the fastenings of several pipes and probed into them with a long rod, peering closely at the end of it and wiping it clean between each use, then reassembled everything.

He opened a panel and peered inside, made a disgusted sound, and reached inside with a long tool, doing something they couldn't see – nor could he, as he was working by touch, the side of his head pressed up against the side of the boiler, his arm at its fullest stretch under it. They heard a sudden loud gurgling sound.

"Draining the old water," he told them. "You'll want to open some taps for a while once I'm done; the water will run rusty and smell bad at first, but it should be clean soon." He straightened up and told a long involved story about how he'd met and married his wive, while the draining sounds continued, then as they ended bent back down again. Now there was a sound of water rushing into the sealed tank and filling it up.

He kept on talking, a moderately amusing anecdote about an accident-prone neighbour of his – also a dwarf, apparently – while he knelt down and took a tinderbox out of his toolkit. He took out a bit of fluffy lint, and a flint and steel with which he quickly set the lint ablaze. He picked it up in a pair of long curved tongs, kneeling down to reach underneath the tank with them, then put the now-empty tongs aside and twisted at something out of sight. There was a hissing sound, then a soft _fwoomp_, and the faint glow of a small flame from underneath the boiler.

The dwarf rose back to his feet, and smiled. "All done," he said, sealed the panel again, and put away his tools – while telling another anecdote about the hapless neighbour – told them the water should be warm in two hours and hot in three, thanked them, and left.

The water that came out of the taps when they tried them was indeed rusty – a vile orange colour – and smelled rather remarkably like rotten eggs. They turned on several taps throughout the house, letting the water flow away down the drains, waiting until it began running clear again, as the dwarf had promised, then closed all the taps again. By the time that was finished with it was nearly noon, and they went downstairs and joined the others for lunch. Arren and Morrigan were still out – gone to visit Queen Anora, Wynne told them. Alistair and Jowan were there wanted to talk after the meal about plans for Jowan's first attempt to heal Tria. That ended up taking much of the afternoon. By the time Arren returned, they had a plan to present to him, and he approved it. For that very evening, he said, as he didn't see any reason to delay Tria's treatment any further, now that they had a place where they could attempt a blood magic ritual in complete privacy.

Zevran and Owen exchanged a look, both of them seeing their hoped-for evening together evaporating.

* * *

The five of them gathered in Zevran and Owen's room that evening. Jowan was there to perform the ritual, Alistair to give him support and monitor his casting, Owen to perform any physical healing that became necessary, Tria as the patient, and Zevran because it was his room too. Owen and he had assembled a pallet for her, along the wall opposite the fireplace in their room, just around the corner from their bed. They saw her comfortably laid down on it, then Owen put sleep on her; not deep dreamless sleep, but a light touch only, just enough to put her under.

Alistair sat down on the floor by her head, his back against the wall and knees spread and lifted, Jowan taking a seat in front of him and leaning back against him; his support for the mage was likely to to include physical support, as Jowan would be essentially unconscious for most of the ritual. Owen settled down cross-legged nearby, while Zevran lurked nearby, watchful, and trying to seem at ease. None of them were really at ease; all blood magic was dangerous, the mage casting it at risk of losing control to the demon that powered it.

Jowan took out a small knife, and after cleansing the blade in summoned fire, sliced open the palm of his hand, cupping the hand to allow the freely-flowing blood to pool in his palm. He hissed and leaned back against Alistair, the bigger man's arms wrapping supportively around him. "I need some of her blood as well," he reminded them.

Owen nodded; he already had a knife in hand, spectral fire rising briefly around it. He made just a small cut on Tria's arm, holding the knife to catch the trickle of blood from it on the flat of the blade, then carefully leaned over and tipped the droplets off into the pool in Jowan's hand. "Enough?" he asked.

Jowan's eyes were already unfocusing as he felt his way into the required state for the spell. He nodded dreamily, then his head tilted back, his eyes drifting shut. Owen smoothed his thumb over the red-daubed cut in Tria's arm, a thread of magic healing it scarlessly.

For a couple of minutes nothing at all appeared to be happening, then an odd roiling motion disturbed the surface of the crimson pool. Dimples appeared in the surface, sending tiny ripples out in spreading circles, and then suddenly, soundlessly, it burst upward into a cloud of fine droplets. The bloody mist quickly took on a globular shape a little over a foot in diameter, the droplets finer in some areas, thicker in others, making smoke-like eddies as they swirled in mid-air.

Jowan's eyes were flicking back and forth behind his closed lids; Tria's were doing the same. She moaned and muttered. Jowan flinched slightly, from whatever it was he was seeing in what should be a shared dream.

Time passed slowly; apart from occasional sounds from the elf and the mage, the crackling of the fire, and the breathing of five people, the room was quiet. The bloody mist roiled and eddied, the thicker tendrils of it sometimes taking forms that were almost recognizable; amorphous shapes like moving people, a hand, a sword, something that might have been a too-close face. Then between one breath and the next, Jowan gave a convulsive shudder and went limp; the blood dropped down, spattering over his and Alistair's clothes and part of the floor. Owen quickly moved over to him and grabbed his hand, healing the still-oozing cut in his palm.

The slight mage drew a deep gasping breath and woke again before they really had any time to begin worrying. Alistair's arms closed tightly round him in a grip somewhere between a hug and a hold. Jowan smiled, tilting his head back and around to brush a kiss against his jaw. "It's okay," Jowan said muzzily. "I'm still me." He looked down at the blood staining his clothes and grimaced. "A very messy me."

Alistair gave a strangled laugh, and hugged him briefly before releasing him, leaning to one side to look deeply into Jowan's eyes. A relieved smile crossed his face. "Yup, still you," he agreed. "What did you see?"

Jowan made a face, shuddering again. "A lot of very ugly things. I... I'll need to think on this a while. And I need sleep rather desperately now, that took a lot more out of me than I'd thought it would. Can we discuss it tomorrow morning?"

"Of course," Owen said, then looked at Tria, who was still twitching and muttering. "Should I put her further under?"

Jowan nodded. "I think it would be the kindest thing to do; the ritual stirred up some memories she'd at least partially suppressed. Dreamless sleep might help to lay them to rest again."

Owen nodded, and touched fingers lightly to her head. She stilled, sighed slightly, and relaxed into deeper sleep.

"I think we both need a bath," Alistair said as he helped Jowan back to his feet.

"I'd like that," Jowan agreed. "And there's good hot water for it." The two said brief good-byes and left, headed back to their own room.

Zevran fetched a damp cloth; he and Owen cleaned their floor, then changed and went to bed as well, exchanging nothing more than a kiss, a smirk, and a regretful sigh.


	4. Crashing Down

They gathered in Jowan and Alistair's room to talk the next day after breakfast. Alistair and Jowan took seats on the bed, Alistair with his legs outstretched across the width of it and his back against the wall, Jowan sitting cross-legged near the edge. Owen took the only chair in the room – thankfully a fairly substantial one – and straddled it, his arms resting on the back. Zevran seated himself on the floor nearby with his back against the wall, knees raised, his crossed arms resting on them.

"So what did you see?" Owen asked.

"Many things, most of which I see no need to describe; I am sure you can guess well enough what sort of ugly things happened to her while she was in Vaughan Kendall's hands. It was very strange – that more surface part of her seemed convinced that she'd been killed that night; that she'd died and never escaped. Yet once I got past that, to where I could see _her_, and not just her memories... inside herself, she is still fighting. Her mind uses imagery from fights; as if she's sparring. It seemed as if she was holding off a group of unseen attackers. I could see her there, unarmed and half-undressed, the memories and the emotions they raise were coming at her like daggers thrown out of darkness. She tried to fend them off, but had only empty hands and tattered cloth to defend herself with. They cut into her, over and over again..." He broke off, and shuddered. "It was even more nightmarish in some ways than the true memories. But that her inner self is still fighting, that she hasn't given up... that gives me hope that she can be healed."

"So what do we do next?" Alistair asked.

"I'm not sure," Jowan said, turning his head to look back over his shoulder at the other man. "Influencing the mind through dreams... I _know_ it can be done, but it isn't anything I've ever done myself, and I know very little about it. There were only a few passing references to it in some of the books I read. Even finding my way into her dream last night was guesswork; doing anything more will be much more difficult."

"Is there nowhere that we might learn more of how this influencing is done?" Zevran asked.

Owen frowned and shook his head. "Unlikely. The library at Kinloch Hold has some books on blood magic, but they were removed from general availability generations ago; only the most senior and trusted of enchanters are allowed access to them any more, and then only under the most restricted of circumstances. The Chantry would destroy the books entirely, but it is necessary to understand how blood magic works for it to be identified and successfully countered."

Jowan spoke up. "The books I found and learned from were ones that had been missed; hidden away by someone and forgotten. And even so, they were books that had only the smallest of mentions of the subject – a chapter here, a paragraph or two there, where some blood magic technique might be briefly referred to. And a single ancient scroll detailing the first few steps of becoming a blood mage; a primer, likely centuries old."

"Yet there must be more sources than those," Zevran pointed out. "Blood mages learn their magic somewhere; look at how many we have encountered in the last year."

"It might be that they learn it from the demon they contract with as part of becoming a blood mage," Jowan said. "But I am hesitant to try and communicate with my demon if there is any other way to learn; talk with demons is always dangerous, they are very good at convincing people to do foolish things."

"Such as becoming a blood mage in the first place?" Owen asked, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

Jowan smiled, looking momentarily embarrassed. "Yes. I'd meant to only read the books for knowledge, not to ever actually use blood magic myself. The temptation to try a single spell from the primer... I don't know which is more to blame in the end, my own curiosity or the demon that is now connected to me, who may well have somehow influenced me beforehand to give in to such curiosity."

"I would almost call it a pity that we always kill maleficar so quickly when we've encountered them," Zevran said, showing his teeth in a broad grin that had little of any real humour in it. "Why, if we were not so precipitate in slaying them when they attack us, we might have many at hand to question about the roots of their magic."

Alistair made a noise as if starting to speak, then broke off and frowned in obvious thought. The other three looked questioningly at him.

"You have thought of something?" Zevran asked after a minute.

"Maybe," he said, then glanced from Jowan to Owen. "I was suddenly reminded about one of the tasks Arren and his group did when we were all doing all that running around between returning to Denerim and the Landsmeet. I don't think you two were around when Arren and Morrigan were telling me about it..."

"Ah!" Zevran exclaimed, sitting up straighter, having quickly guessed the direction Alistair's thoughts had gone; he had been present for the conversation in question.

"They cleared out a blood mage coven here in Denerim itself; they had a whole warren under some buildings on the edge of the noble quarter. Living quarters, an armoury, dining hall... everything they needed for a rather comfortable life. And Morrigan was teasing Mara a little about it because she'd kept wanting to stop and..."

"...and look at their books," Zevran said with him, grinning widely.

"So you think we might be able to find something about blood magic among whatever books they had?" Owen asked, sitting up straighter, a look of interest on his face.

"If they had any on the subject, and if the books weren't destroyed, and if we can find out where they were taken, yes," Alistair said. "It's at least possible."

"A lot of ifs. But our first step is obvious; locating Sergeant Kylon. It is to him that Arren passed word of the warren; he is most likely to both know any answers about what subsequently happened to its contents, and be willing to share them with us," Zevran pointed out.

Jowan and Owen both nodded. "Especially if we have Arren do the asking," Jowan suggested, then unfolded his legs and rose to his feet. "We should go find him before he vanishes off on some other errand."

"I'll go ask him, no need for all of us to go," Alistair said, rising from the bed as well. "I'll be right back."

Jowan nodded agreement, and sat back down again. Alistair stepped over his legs and hurried out of the room. The three sat in silence for a moment.

"How is your shape-shifting going?" Zevran asked, looking toward Jowan. "Have you picked up a winged shape yet?"

Jowan grimaced. "No. I haven't really had time to work on it since we arrived in Denerim, we've all been so busy. If we're here for long enough I hope to have the time to finally learn one."

"What are you thinking of learning?" Owen asked, and glanced at Zevran. "I know we saw you studying a raven at Redcliffe Castle."

Jowan nodded. "Yes, after talking with Zevran one day about what birds that would be large enough and common enough to be both an easier form to take and not raise too much interest among anyone spotting me, I think a crow or raven would be a good choice."

"There are always seagulls, too," Zevran said, and flashed a brief look at Owen, who glanced at him with suppressed amusement.

Jowan didn't notice the by-play between the two, already shaking his head. "Some varieties of them are certainly a nice large bird, but they're more coastal. And seasonal; I'd stand out inland in winter a little too much, I think. And I want to avoid any bird that people commonly kill for food, so that leaves out all geese or ducks. And swans. All of which are also seasonal birds. No, it comes down to things like crows and ravens, mostly. Owls or hawks or eagles are too noticeable, or have other limitations. Though it might be worth learning owl too some day, for travel at night."

"Why don't you also learn how to shape-change, Owen?" Zevran asked, looking questioningly at him.

Owen shrugged. "It's an intriguing skill, but it doesn't particularly interest me."

Zevran frowned slightly. "Not even when it might help you to remain out of the chantry's hands, if you so chose?"

Owen sighed. "I'm... truthfully, I'm not entirely sure that I _want_ to remain outside the tower. Life as an apostate, having to fear discovery all the time... I don't think that's for me. Especially not when I'm such an easily recognizable person. I do like being back out in the world – and I have reasons to want to stay out, yes," he added, giving Zevran a rather smouldering look. "But it would be better to be outside of the Circle with Chantry permission and have all the required travel documents, as Mara and I currently are, and as Jowan now is. To still have the Circle available as a place I can return to, to use the library again if nothing else," he added, lips twitching in amusement.

Jowan smiled crookedly. "I never wanted to leave; the Circle was all I'd ever known. Circumstances forced me out. But now that I'm out... I like that I can now go back, if I want to, but I want to stay out. With Alistair," he said, a note in his voice that made the other two smile understandingly at him. "If it came to a choice between the two... yes, I'd turn apostate again. Beg Arren to allow me to take the joining, and become a Grey Warden, if that was what it took to stay by his side."

Owen smiled fondly at his friend. "You love him very much."

Jowan smiled happily. "He's the best thing that's ever happened to me. I'll do whatever it takes to remain with him."

They heard voices out in the hallway then – Alistair and Arren – and broke off their conversation, looking at the door as the two wardens entered. Arren nodded in greeting to all of them, then turned to Jowan. "Alistair's explained to me your need to do some further research into blood magic, in order to have some understanding of what you might be able to do to help Tria. I've agreed to find out if we can locate any of the books the coven we cleared out had. However," and he paused, face going grim for a moment. "Blood magic is both extremely dangerous and unlawful; I will only allow _you_ to see any such books we locate, not any of the other mages in our party. You're not to discuss specifics of their contents with anyone except Alistair, who will also be present any time you're studying them, and who will continue to have final say on whether or not you may attempt any of the spells you learn from them. Is that understood?" He looked back and forth between Jowan and Owen, a very serious expression on his face.

Owen lifted his hands up placatingly. "I have no interest in blood magic, nor any desire to know more about it or how it functions than the little I already know. I am completely happy to have nothing at all to do with it, apart from whatever limited exposure is necessary when helping in Tria's healing."

Arren smiled slightly. "Good. Jowan, Alistair, come with me – we'll go see Kylon and find out if the books still exist, to start with."

They all rose and left the room together, Jowan and Alistair saying hurried good-byes to Owen and Zevran before following Arren away.

The assassin and the mage looked at each other as the sound of the three men going down the stairs faded away. Zevran smiled. "It sounds as if we may finally have some time to ourselves, does it not?" he asked.

Owen smiled back, and stepped closer to Zevran, enjoying the way he towered over the elf. "So it does," he agreed, voice low and rumbling, then lifted his hands to gently grasp Zevran's head, tilting it back as he leaned down to kiss him hungrily. Zevran made an approving sound, his own hands rising to knot into the fabric of Owen's shirt. Owen grinned as he ended the kiss, then wrapped his arms around the elf and straightened up, easily lifting him off his feet. Zevran gave a short, breathless laugh, and quickly wrapped his legs tightly around Owen's waist, one arm hooking around the much larger man's neck. "Shall we retire to our room?" he asked, a pleased smile on his face as he leaned back a little to smile at Owen.

"That sounds like a good idea..." Owen said, beginning to turn to face down the hallway toward their own bedroom. Then jumped in startlement as a series of loud clanging crashes resounded from somewhere downstairs, as well as a frightened screech in Tria's voice.

Zevran cursed even as he dropped from Owen's arms, the two hurrying over to the stairs and down to find out what had happened.

* * *

Owen lifted his hands away from Tria's head, and peered closely at her blood-daubed scalp; easy to do, as she was currently curled up in his lap, clinging to his clothes with her face buried against him, still shaking a little from her scare. She'd been helping Wynne in the kitchen – she was a good scullion, and seemed to enjoy helping the elderly mage in the kitchen – and when trying to take a pot down for her had had the entire shelf it was on give way, dumping its contents everywhere. She'd been lucky not to be more badly injured by the falling pots and pans; some were heavy enough that they might have killed her. One had hit her hard enough to open a gash in her scalp, before she'd managed to get her arms up over her head to protect it, and she had a large dark bruise forming on her right forearm from one of the blows she'd deflected. The scalp wound had bled heavily, as head wounds usually did.

Mara, also shaken by the accident, handed him a damp cloth, and he dabbed carefully at Tria's hair, cleaning away what he could of the remaining blood from around the fading scar that was all that remained of her injury. He glanced across the kitchen, to where Zevran was stacking the fallen pots off to one side, clearing room for them to replace the shelf. "How hard will that be to fix?" he called.

Zevran frowned up at the broken shelf. "More work that it looked at first, I think – the wood is old, and judging by the appearance of where it broke, it was infested at some time; wood worm or termites or similar. I suspect we may need to pull down and replace all of this shelving before it is safe again."

"We'll need to have Arren let Fergus know, I suppose," Wynne said from where she was busy making a large pot of tea, having decided they all could use some to help them calm down again after the excitement. "Should we take down everything?"

"Certainly anything heavy or breakable, I would think," Zevran agreed.

Their free time quickly evaporated. The rest of the morning was spent in removing everything from the shelves and stacking it on and under the worktables. Arren returned without the others shortly before noon, and after seeing the broken shelf and tapping and listening at some of the whole ones, went out again, Morrigan and Mouse accompanying him, to go let Fergus know about the problem.

Everyone else ate a lunch of bread, soft cheese, fruit and tea in the kitchen. Shortly after Arren and Morrigan returned, with Fergus and a pair of carpenters in tow. One of them set to work in removing the old shelves, with help from Zevran, Owen and Sten, while the other went around the house checking for any other signs of weakened wood-work, accompanied by Arren and Fergus. The three mages all retreated upstairs with Tria, deciding a quiet afternoon spent in reading, talking, and maintaining their clothing and gear would help the still-shaken young elf to settle.

There was, thankfully, almost no sign of damage to any of the woodwork elsewhere in the house. Whatever the infestation had been, it had been limited to the kitchen and a nearby storeroom, where there was powdery sawdust found around some old empty crates and stacked firewood, but no sign of whatever had made it. Most likely detected and exterminated while Howe's men had been there, and the extent of the boring damage not noticed or repaired, they guessed.

The carpenters did fast work, but it was still early evening by the time the old shelves had been torn down and new, sound ones erected in their place, and the workmen finally left. Alistair and Jowan returned as the carpenters were finishing their work, Jowan lost in thought, and Alistair looking tired. They joined the others in a late meal, while being brought up to date on happenings in the household while they were away. The remainder of the evening was spent in putting everything away again on the rebuilt shelves.

"I need a nice hot bath after all that lifting and carrying," Owen told Zevran once they had returned upstairs to their rooms.

"Shall I attend on you in the bathroom?" Zevran asked, eyebrows raising slightly, his expression hopeful.

Owen smiled slightly. "Of course," he said.

He did enjoy pampering the mage, Zevran found himself thinking a while later as he perched on the edge of the tub, washing Owen's back. Any excuse to touch him, really, though doing things like this, serving as his bath attendant, were somehow particularly enjoyable. Perhaps because he was doing them by choice, not as part of getting close enough to someone to kill them. When he had finished bathing Owen, the mage insisted on him climbing into the tub as well, and helped to wash his hair. It was pleasant to just sit there, eyes closed, while the mage's large fingers scrubbed back and forth across his scalp, lathering up his hair. After a while Owen stopped, and touched Zevran's chin, turning his head to exchange a single heated kiss with the elf.

Owen rose to his feet as soon as that was done, however, yawning hugely. "Finish your bath," he said. "I'm going to go get changed for bed."

Zevran nodded, and ducked his head under the water to rinse off. He quickly bathed and dried, then went out to the bedroom, anticipating a pleasant interlude before sleep. And stopped, smiling ruefully. Owen was already in bed – and already fast asleep. He sighed, pulled on his own nightclothes, and climbed in with the mage, who was asleep deeply enough that he didn't even stir.

Perhaps tomorrow they'd find some time to spend together.


	5. New Blades

The next day was busy, starting with the pair of them being assigned to help Wynne and Tria with the grocery shopping that had become necessary. They spent the morning following the two women around the marketplace while Wynne purchased meat, grain, and vegetables, ordering it delivering to the house. The attitude of many of the shopkeepers improved significantly when they heard the address; it didn't matter that the house was only on loan to their party, it was in the noble quarter and a holding of the well-regarded Cousland family; prompt delivery was promised.

It was not a total waste of their morning, Zevran considered, as they'd also spent a little time in purchasing odds and ends for themselves. He'd acquired more of his preferred soap, imported from Antiva, a bottle of Antivan brandy – an inferior brand, but potable – and placed an order with a tailor to have some new clothing made for himself, tipping the man handsomely to ensure it was made and delivered as quickly as possible. Owen, after thoughtfully examining some fine fabrics at one stall for a while, abruptly bought several lengths of cloth.

"Do you not have enough clothes yet?" Zevran asked, eyeing the large parcel as the shopkeeper tied it up with twine.

Owen grinned. "Only some of that is for me; most is for Mara. And I thought I'd ask her to make Tria something pretty, as well."

"That is well thought of," Zevran agreed, glancing toward the elven girl, who was standing at a nearby stall with Wynne, watching as the mage haggled with the vendor over a book. She was dressed in castoffs donated by those in the party closest to her size; one of Jowan's shirts, some leggings of Zevran's, a pair of too-large leather boots that she had to wear a couple of pairs of socks within to make fit, her feet swimming in them. "We should more properly outfit her, those boots are a disgrace," he said, and went over to say as much to Wynne.

They returned to the house carrying several parcels, not just Owen's cloth, Zevran's little luxuries, and Wynne's romances, but boots and indoor shoes for Tria, new smallclothes, stockings, and a few changes of shirts and leggings, as well as a plain dress in a deep blue fabric. Tria was beaming, walking along in her new well-fitting boots, her shirt now belted in with a colourful scarf instead of the length of rope she had been using.

They ate lunch, then spent the early afternoon helping to put away the food supplies as they were delivered. Alistair wandered in as they were finishing that – Jowan, he said, had finished reading things and was now upstairs taking a rest and thinking about how to apply everything he'd learned. And then pointed out how long it had been since any of them had last sparred, and the unlikelihood of them having time for it this evening, if Jowan came up with any ideas. So the remainder of the afternoon was spent in the kitchen courtyard, all of them working through their exercises and taking turns to spar in various combinations.

Tria sat on the sidelines at first, watching them intently, then finally hopped down off the upturned barrel she'd been using as a seat, produced a knife so often honed that only a lengthy sliver of razor-sharp blade was left, and began working through a set of exercises as well. Owen and Zevran both grinned, and a little while later, while Owen and Alistair sparred, Zevran gestured for her to come join him. She frowned worriedly for a moment, then slowly walked over to where he was waiting.

"Come," he said gently. "We are friends; neither of us will hurt the other. Let us start slow; if I come at you like _this_, what is the response?" he asked, and very slowly moved in the motions of an attack, but at less than half the speed of a real one.

Tria's face lit up, and she dropped into her proper stance, then moved her own blade equally slowly to turn aside his dagger. He grinned and nodded approvingly, and the two of them continued, slowly picking up speed as she gained in confidence. By the time Alistair and Owen had finished their own sparring, and came over to watch, Zevran and Tria were moving at full speed, both of them grinning ferociously.

She was good, Zevran decided; very good. Not as good as he, of course, but far better than the average knife-fighter. They were both sheened with sweat before he finally broke off, skipping backwards a few steps and holding his hands out wide to either side. Once he was sure that she, too, had broken off, he bowed deeply to her, sweeping his hair back from his face as he straightened, and grinned at the other two men. "We must remember to find her some proper weapons," he said, then turned back to Tria. "You are potentially quite deadly with that knife, but as worn as the blade is, it would likely not last long in a real fight; one or two solid blows and it would break or bend."

She nodded, expression serious, and made it vanish away again; up her left sleeve, he thought, having watched her movements carefully. She was very good at that too, that even he found it difficult to be entirely certain. Likely she had been a pickpocket at some point, and probably a good one. Or a card sharp. Something that encouraged speed and nimbleness of fingers, anyway.

Jowan did indeed have ideas of what he wanted to try that evening, and Owen and Zevran once again found their room being volunteered for the experiment. From the outside it looked very much the same as Jowan's previous trial; the mixing of their blood, the globe of carmine mist swirling with amorphous forms. Jowan was looking pleased when he finally ended the spell, however – much less dramatically this time, the blood returning neatly to his cupped hands before he woke – and tired, and said he might have some ideas, but would, again, wait to talk them over in the morning. Once his hands had been washed, and the cut healed, Alistair led him off to their bedroom, again leaving Tria in their care.

Owen knelt down beside her for a moment, deepening her sleep, though she did not seem as disturbed this time as she had after Jowan's first working.

They changed and retired to bed as well. Zevran lifted an eyebrow questioningly as the mage joined him. "Perhaps if we're very quiet?" he asked softly.

Owen grinned, then moved to lean down over him, and kiss him hungrily. Zevran smiled, then shivered as one of Owen's hands slid down his side and hip, then upwards, within the cloth of his nightshirt now. It came to rest at the top of his hip, one broad thumb rubbing gently at the ticklish skin between thigh and belly, making him shiver again. He slipped his own hand up under Owen's nightshirt in turn, drawing a brief frown from the mage, then an agreeable nod and a second, longer kiss.

They touched each other, using just the one hand each, sliding it across increasingly heated flesh. Owen seemed to find Zevran's shivers of reaction particularly intriguing, and sought out what might cause them; where a light touch, or the drag of fingernails, or a gentle rubbing motion might make the elf shiver or arch or gasp.

They forgot, briefly, that they were not alone, until a particularly loud moan from the assassin drew a sleepy muttering and a shifting sound from where Tria slept as she rolled over. They both froze, then Owen gave Zevran a rueful smile and shook his head slightly, leaned down to kiss him gently on the forehead, and rolled over on his side, settling himself for sleep.

Zevran lay awake a little while, thinking that they had best heal Tria soon, or he was going to go mad with unrequited lust for his tall friend.

* * *

"There was a weapon she was looking for in her dreams last night," Jowan explained as he ate a piece of bread with honey, pausing to lick a drip of it off his thumb. "She kept finding it and then losing it again. It seemed important to her. When I went deeper, beyond the dreams to where she was fighting unarmed, I tried making it appear in her hands. I only succeeded briefly, and she was able to use it to fend off a couple of attacks, but then it vanished again," he explained, sounding slightly frustrated.

He paused to take a big gulp of his tea, then continued. "Anyway, I was thinking... maybe she could hold on to it in dreams better, if she had a blade like it in real life."

Owen looked interested at that. "You mean, it might be harder for her to misplace it in her dreams, if some part of her _knows_ she really has such a blade?"

"Yes, exactly," Jowan said. "I think I'll still need to spend time putting it into her hands over and over again, but of all the changes I could make, in many ways it is the easiest. I could also destroy outright some of the memories that are harming her, but I am very hesitant to do that; we _are_ our memories, and there is no way of telling how much of her would be connected to such a memory, especially one as strong as these are."

The others agreed that this sounded unwise to attempt.

"So describe this weapon to us – what is it? A sword? A dagger?" Zevran asked.

"I'm not entirely sure," Jowan said. "It looked rather like a sword, but it was very short; longer than a dagger, but not by very much. Around a cubit in length, perhaps a little more."

"What did the hilt look like? Thick or thin? Was there a crossguard?" the assassin asked.

Jowan shrugged. "You know I know little of weapons. There was... not a crossguard, no, but oval disks of metal, I think, to either side of the blade. And a looping piece from that down to the pommel..."

"A knuckle-bar," Alistair supplied the term. "Protects your knuckles. Also useful for punching someone in the face with, especially if the blade has a good heavy hilt."

Owen grinned briefly. "I think I know what sort of blade Jowan is trying to describe; and yes, it would be precious to Tria; it was her mother's small-sword."

"Small-sword?" Alistair asked, while Zevran looked enlightened.

"Yes, so-named before it is a quite small sword. When the elves were first forbidden from carrying swords, where was a length limit established as to what was considered a knife or dagger, and what a sword; as long as it was no more than... what was it, I think a cubit plus some other measure, either a hand or a span, something like that. Anyway, as long as it was shorter than that, is wasn't considered a sword. So many of the elves took to using small-swords. They're mostly a thrusting weapon, sometimes with a sharpened edge. They can punch right through armour, if its not too heavy and you know just where the weaker spots are, and chain mail is pretty useless against them. Very nasty, in the hands of someone who knows what they're doing with one. Which Adaia did. Eventually they were banned too, and all that could be found confiscated."

"Is there any chance that Tria's cousins – Soris and Shianni – that they might still have it?" Zevran asked.

"It's possible. It certainly wouldn't hurt to ask. And if not, we might be able to find something similar in the market; they're still used by many people, just not by the elves. Though that may change, now that it's no longer the Kendalls determining what laws the Denerim elves live under."

The four of them let Arren know where they were going, and set out together for the alienage. The visit proved disappointing; Shianni remembered the sword, but also remembered that it had vanished when Adaia was killed, presumably taken either by the men who had killed her, or confiscated by the guardsmen who'd found her body. They thanked her, and spent a little time in bringing the pair up to date on Tria's recovery, then headed to the market.

They stopped at the stall of Gorim the dwarf first of all. He shook his head. "Don't carry any of those myself, but I can tell you who might," he said, and directed them to a small shop off of a narrow alley nearby, where an elderly man dealt in used weapons.

He listened to their question, nodding repeatedly, eyes blinking slowly at intervals, then shuffled along behind his counter and pulled a box out from under the counter, hefting it with a strength that seemed in opposition to his frail appearance, dropping it down with a loud clatter. "This is the most of the ones I still have," he said. "If you don't find one you like in there, I have more." So saying, he took a seat on a nearby tall stool, leaving it to them to sort through the weapons themselves.

Owen being the only one of them who'd ever actually seen Adaia's sword, they left the job to him, Jowan watching interestedly. He sorted through them quickly, putting most in one large pile, making a smaller pile of some half-dozen blades, all of a similar style. When he was done he gestured for Alistair to return the rest to the box, and spread out his selection, frowning over them.

"This is the closest in size and shape, I think," he said after a while, reaching out to lightly touch the hilt of one. "I think hers had a heavier knuckle-bar, and the pommel was shaped differently... not a perfectly round one like this, but a little pointed... like the nut of an acorn. The better to crack skulls, she told me once."

The shopkeeper cleared his throat. "The pommels unscrew, and I may have some of the shape you described," he volunteered. Owen nodded, and he poked around in some boxes on a nearby shelf, eventually turning up an acorn-shaped pommel. He quickly changed it out, winning a wide grin from Owen. They haggled only a little before settling on a price and leaving the shop.

"We'll need a sheath for that, or some kind of hanger at least," Zevran observed as they emerged from the alley and back into the market proper.

"We can worry about that later, right now, I'd like to go and check if Wade has finished my new armour yet, since we're so close," Owen said, pointing to the building across from them; Wade and Herren's shop.

Wade had indeed finished the armour, and Owen had soon vanished into the back to try it on, while Alistair and Herren leaned on the counter, having an animated discussion about armour. Jowan stood nearby, listening. Zevran, after a while, picked up the small-sword, and drifted off to watch Wade; the armourer was still finishing work on the smaller set of drake-hide leathers for the assassin.

When Owen finally emerged back into the shop, he had a wide, pleased grin on his face. The new armour fit beautifully, and unlike the previous pinkish-red set, had come out a dark green shading to blue anywhere there was shadows. It had an almost metallic gleam to it, looking little like leather. "It's _perfect_," Owen said. "Wade is a genius."

Herren preened, pleased to hear his partner praised, then suddenly stiffened. "Wade! What are you doing! That is _not_ the elf's armour you're working on!"

"Oh hush, Herren, it's just a small extra commission, it won't take me but an hour," Wade responded placidly, continuing to cut out pieces of leather from what appeared to be leftover scraps of the dragonhide from making Owen's armour. "A little piece of fancy-work. I swear it will be the prettiest little sword-belt you've ever seen," he added, turning back to Zevran. "Though it will balance better if there's a second blade, on the other side..."

"Of course," Zevran said, quite seriously. "I was thinking of gifting her with a decent dagger, as well... and saw just the thing earlier." He rattled off a description of the blade, Wade nodding along, then strolled back over to the counter and smiled charmingly at Harren. "Do not fear, I will pay well for the sword belt; it is a special gift for a lady, and needed today."

Herren sniffed. But his manner changed entirely when Zevran produced a purse, and placed a small stack of gold coins on the counter; far more than a sword-belt would normally cost. He thawed out, and promised to see that both the belt and Zevran's armour were finished and delivered before the end of the day.

Zevran led the way back across the market to Gorim's stall. The merchant was in conversation with a pair of hooded figures when they approached – also dwarves, judging by their height – but the pair quickly withdrew to one side when they saw he had customers. Zevran haggled for and purchased one of the daggers he had on display, and thanked him for his earlier tip.

As they were about to leave, the merchant suddenly cleared his throat, looking nervous. "Wait – you're all part of that elven Grey Warden's group, aren't you? Arren?"

They exchanged glances, then Alistair stepped back over to the counter. "We are. He and I are both Grey Wardens."

One of the dwarves stepped closer, pushing back his hood and giving Alistair a searching look. Male, and with a pale-coloured Duster brand on one cheek, incorporated into a tattoo that rose up over his right eye. He had ginger-red hair, cropped short and brushed back, and a neatly trimmed beard, the lengthy front potion of it overlaid with three thin braids.

"You match the description I remember," he said. "Alistair, right? I'm Mica..."

Alistair straightened sharply, his eyes darting over to the other dwarf, who'd remained hooded. "I remember that name, too, from when Arren was telling me about the Deep Roads beyond Ostagar. He'd hoped you two would turn up again, if that is indeed Pri..."

"Shh," Mica hastily said. "No name for her, please; her brother is aware she survived. He's offered a handsome reward for anyone who brings him proof of her death," he added bitterly. "We're not even safe among surfacers, apart from Gorim here. There's bounty hunters out after us as well."

Alistair nodded. "Come with us; I know Arren will be pleased to see you both again. And you'll be safe among us."

Mica nodded. "Thank you," he said, sounding relieved, and raised his hood again. They set off back to the house, the two silent dwarves in their midst.


	6. Passages

Arren was in the front hall of the townhouse when they got back, talking with Wynne, and dressed as if he was either just about to leave, or just back from elsewhere. He turned to look as they came in the door, and a broad smile immediately lit his face as he recognized the two figures with them.

"Brosca! Princess!" he exclaimed, and hurried over. Mica smiled as he pushed back his hood again. The female dwarf finally pushed back her own hood as well, revealing long blond hair, and striking grey-blue eyes in a snub-nosed face.

"_What!_" Morrigan's voice exclaimed from somewhere nearby, and she hurried out into the hallway, smiling happily as she, too saw the pair of dwarves. "Leian," she said, an unusual degree of warmth in her voice, and hurried toward them.

"Morrigan," the dwarf so addressed said, smiling warmly up at the taller woman, and Morrigan leaned down to exchange an affectionate hug with her.

"We had begun to give up hope of seeing the pair of you again," Morrigan told her as she straightened up again. "You look tired. Are you hungry? Do you need a bath?"

Alistair felt his eyebrows raising a little. He'd never seen Morrigan be so warmly friendly with anyone before. Well, except maybe Arren, and to a lesser degree with Mara, but even with them there always seemed to be a slight distance, something held in reserve. Her delighted welcome of the dwarf made it clear that she considered her to be a very close friend.

The princess, meanwhile, was smiling over Morrigan's torrent of questions. "I _am_ tired, we've been on the road for days with only brief stops for rest. And hungry. And just tell me who I need to kill, to have a bath," she added. "They'll be split in two before you can fill the tub."

"Food and talk first, I think," Arren said, smiling in amusement. "Come, the kitchen is this way, you two can eat while you tell us what delayed you."

They all headed to the kitchen, everyone in the house joining them. Even Sten emerged from his rooms, nodding sombrely at the male dwarf, with an expression on his face that was the closest thing to an actual smile that Alistair had ever seen him make. Oghren came hurrying down the stairs, pausing halfway down with a pleased grin on his face. He bellowed something in loud dwarven as he hurried down the last few steps, then exchanged a hug and back-buffet with the male dwarf that looked powerful enough to leave bruises on both of them, followed by a deep bow to the princess and an apology for his inebriated state. That really made Alistair's eyebrows rise. Oghren, not only being polite, but apologizing for being _drunk!?_ Surely the world must be coming to an end.

Eventually they were all seated in the kitchen, gathered around the table, with food and drink before the two dwarves, and drinks – tea or ale, as each preferred – for everyone else.

"So tell us, what delayed you?" Morrigan asked. "When we parted near Orzammar, you thought it would be no more than a few days before you would find your way out."

"We started to worry when you never showed up at Redcliffe, as we'd agreed," Arren spoke up.

Mica, the Duster, nodded. "It took us a lot longer to find our way out of the Deep Roads than we'd hoped; there was a group of Legion of the Dead between us and the exit I'd seen before. We tried to find our way past them through side tunnels, and ended up running into darkspawn instead, and having to flee off to the east for some time before finally losing them."

"And then when we tried to work our way back west and south again, we ran into a group of dwarves of their way to recover goods from a recently re-claimed thaig. One of them recognized me; he's part of my brother's faction," Leian explained in turn. "We managed to escape again after killing two of them, but ended up being driven even further to the east. We hit one of the old main highways then, and it seemed relatively clear of danger, so we decided to follow it south for a while, before looking for ways back west again."

Mica picked up the tale again. "Unfortunately there were no ways to the west; not for quite a long distance. Nor ways to the east, either. I think now we must have been on the stretch of road that passes under Lake Calenhad from north to south; there was a sealed side-road entrance near the north end of it that I think might have been the old route to Kinloch Hold."

"That's been sealed since the time of the Imperium, if I'm remembering my history correctly," Leian put in. "It was used to trade with the Avvar who lived in the tower, after we'd built it for them, but was sealed when the Tevinter magisters took over the tower; the dwarves had no wish to leave them any easy access to our diggings. And by the time the Imperium was driven away from these shores, we'd already lost much of the Deep Roads to the darkspawn; even if we'd wanted to reopen it, there was no easy way to reach it any longer."

"Anyway, we eventually reached a cross-tunnel," Mica continued. "Neither of us liked the look of the western or southern routes, so we headed east again, and eventually managed to find our way up to the surface, through a human mine that had been dug down deep enough to touch a cavern system that had an opening to the Deep Roads. An old mine, no longer being worked; I suspect when they breached the caves they found something far nastier than just the bats and giant spiders that currently inhabit them. There were a lot of old bones in the lower sections of the mines, as if a great slaughter had happened there at some time in the past. We weren't sure exactly where we were by then – forested hills somewhere – but we were pretty sure from the map you'd given us that if we headed north-east we'd eventually hit either a road or the coast. We reached a road eventually, and then a couple of days later encountered a human who was able to tell us where we were on our map – a few days south-west of Denerim."

"And then the _next_ person we encountered was a dwarven merchant," Leian said grimly. "He warned us that Bhelen is promising a hefty reward to anyone who brings him back proof of my death. We were lucky that the merchant had ties to the Harrowmonts; an uncle back in Orzammar who'd married into a minor branch of the family. He doesn't think much of my brother right now. Not that I can blame him, when I don't think much of Bhelen myself."

Mica snorted, expressing his own opinion of Bhelen. "Thankfully the merchant was also full of news about the recent happenings in Denerim, so we heard about the Landsmeet, and that you could currently be found in Denerim. We travelled here as quickly as we could after that, both for our own safety and in hopes of finding you before you moved on again. Which clearly we were lucky enough to actually do."

Leian smiled. "I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Gorim in the market here. He's done well for himself since his own banishment, it seems. And finding him again was lucky for us, as some of your companions came to his stall shortly afterwards," she added, nodding her head toward the four of them.

"Well, I'm very pleased that you've managed to reconnect with us," Arren said, smiling warmly at the pair again. "Your aid was invaluable in the Deep Roads, and will be welcome here as well. We've got plenty of rooms empty here, so the pair of you can make your own choice as to quarters, and then pick out whatever furnishings you want from what's available. It looks likely we'll be here for some days yet, we're still waiting for Queen Anora and her nobles to be ready to gather an army somewhere within striking distance of Ostagar. Speaking of which, I'd better get underway," he added regretfully. "I'm expected at a meeting at the castle shortly, and I'm going to be arriving late if I don't hurry."

He said good-bye to the two dwarfs, then hurried off.

"Can I have that bath before I start looking at rooms?" Leian asked wistfully.

"Of course!" Morrigan exclaimed, rising to her feet. "Come, you can use the tub in my rooms."

Leian smiled and jumped down from her stool, then turned back to Mica. "You pick us out some rooms," she told him. "I'll join you when I'm done."

Mica flushed a little, looking both self-conscious and pleased. "Of course," he said. She beamed at him and left. He turned even pinker when he saw how many of the people seated around the table were looking at him. "What, my sister's involved with her brother; what's to say I can't be involved with _her?_" he asked challengingly.

Oghren laughed, and leaned over to slap his shoulder. "Won't get any argument on that out of _me_. Anyway, anyone with eyes could see the way it was going between the two of you before we were even halfway through those blighted Deep Roads. Most everyone else in this house is shacked up one way or another, so I doubt they'd say anything either. Anyway, congratulations! She's a fine woman."

Mica flushed again, looking mostly pleased now.

Sten rose to his feet. "Come, let me show you around the house," he offered. "I too am pleased that you have been able to rejoin us."

Mica nodded, and let Sten and Oghren take him off to look at the available rooms. Wynne and Tria started cleaning up the dishes. Alistair, Jowan, Mara and Zevran were all content to just remain in the warm kitchen for now, sitting at the table and finishing whatever they'd been drinking. Owen vanished off upstairs, after telling Mara he had something to show her

There was a distant knocking. "Ah, I believe that will be my armour being delivered," Zevran said, perking up, and hurried off to answer the door. Owen returned with the parcel of fabrics he'd purchased the day before, and began showing them to Mara. She was delighted with the fabrics he'd picked out, and after spreading out a clean tablecloth to cover one end of the table, began spreading the folded lengths out to look at, sorting them into stacks as she decided which of them to pair with what other fabrics to make herself some new robes and Owen some additional clothing as well. The tall mage leaned down to whisper in her ear at one point, and she gave him a delighted grin, then nodded.

"Tria, come see these – aren't they just the prettiest fabrics you've ever seen?" she called.

Wynne and Tria both came over to look. "What lovely brocades," Wynne exclaimed. "I may have to have you show me the shop where you purchased them; I could do with a new set of robes myself, after being on the road so long all my existing ones are starting to look a little well-worn."

Tria's hand reached out, fingertips lightly brushing against a length of dark blue fabric shot with silver threads. "Pretty," she agreed.

Mara and Owen exchanged a grin behind the young elf's back, and Alistair was suddenly certain that the next time he saw that particular fabric, Tria would be wearing it. He hid a grin behind his mug, and glanced at Jowan. The mage's eyes looked equally amused, and when he looked back at the group of mages across the table from them, he could see that Wynne was looking amused too; apparently the only person who'd missed the by-play was Tria herself.

Just then Zevran came back into the rooms, wearing his new leather armour and grinning widely. "Wade is a genius," he said proudly, and spun around lightly, showing off his new leathers. They clung snugly to him, but were cut generously enough where they needed to be so as not to impede his movement. And Wade had done something about the colour; they weren't the purplish-pink shade that Owen's set of drakehide had been, dyed instead in a mottled pattern of greys and blues that would blend into the shadows, all the metal fittings on them a dark matte finish that wouldn't catch the light.

"And this is for you, my dear," Zevran said, and held out a belt to Tria; the weapon's-belt Wade had been working on when they'd left the shop, the small-sword and dagger both in their sheaths. It was beautiful work, in the same green-shading-to-blue leather as Owen's armour, with silver-plated fittings, the leather itself embossed with a beautiful pattern of flowers and leaves, and as well as the two sheathed weapons also had a few small pouches along its length. It was astonishing to realize that Wade had made the entire thing some time in the couple of hours since they'd been in his shop "The weapons are a present from Owen and myself, and the belt is from Alistair and Jowan."

Tria's eyes widened in shock. She gave a glad cry, and ran around the table to where Zevran stood, eyes locked on the small-sword. She all but snatched it from Zevran's hands, staring open-mouthed at the weapon, then partially drew it, her eyes filling with tears, before hugging the sheathed weapon tightly to her, the rest of the belt and sheathed dagger dangling loose. She rocked back and forth, crying and beaming happily at the same time.

Everyone around the table smiled at her overwhelmed reaction, Mara hurrying over to her side to give her a reassuring hug. "What a beautiful belt!" the petite mage exclaimed, and managed to get Tara to loosen her grip on it enough to take a closer look at it. "Come, let's put this on you and make sure it fits," she said.

Tria nodded, and with Mara's help soon had the belt around her waist, adjusted to fit properly, the sword hanging on the left, dagger on the right. The two girls quickly explored the pouches, Tria smiling happily when she found that one of them already held the whetstone, oil and rags she'd need to sharpen and maintain the weapons, the rest empty and waiting for whatever other contents she wanted to store away in them.

"I think she likes the present," Owen said in a stage whisper to Wynne, who looked amused.

Tria looked up and nodded quickly, smiling widely, then looked around at all of them. "Thank you," she said shyly. "Thank you all."

They all smiled back, warmed by her reaction to the gift. Alistair hoped that Jowan's guess would be correct, and that it would help in her recovery. By the way her fingers kept sneaking over to touch the hilt of the small-sword, he suspect the mage might prove right.

* * *

The five of them gathered in Owen and Zevran's room again that night, Tria settling trustingly down to sleep on the pallet they'd made for her there, though she insisting on keeping her weapon belt nearby, where she could rest her hand on the small-sword as she slept. Alistair sat down against the wall by her to support Jowan while he performed his ritual.

It still disturbed Alistair to witness the mage actually work blood magic; he worried every time that the mage might fall prey to his demon, that he might end up forced to kill Jowan. The sooner that they succeeded in healing Tria – or even simply deciding that they _couldn't_ heal her – the happier he'd be. Well, not happy for Tria, of course, if they failed. But he hated the risk Jowan was taking. It would kill him to lose the mage now, after all they'd been through together. It would be like cutting off his own limb, if he ever had to kill him, and undoubtedly leave him feeling just as crippled for the rest of his life.

He snuck in a hug for Jowan as he closed his arms around him, and felt the pressure of mage leaning back an extra little bit against him in return. Jowan began his now-familiar ritual; cutting open his own hand, then waiting while Owen removed a tiny bit of Tria's blood and added it to the shallow pool forming in the palm of his hand. And then Jowan slumped, as he dove into the Fade to look for her there, the blood rising to form a swirling globe in mid-air.

Alistair could feel the magic Jowan was casting; feel, too, how different it felt than ordinary magic. Hotter, somehow, and fizzy – unpleasant. It made his teeth ache a little. He tried to concentrate on distractions like that, instead of his fears for the smaller man. Staring at the globe of blood was a good distraction, as long as he didn't think of what the carmine mist actually _was_. The almost-recognizable shapes that the thicker strands of mist took were almost hypnotic, as they writhed and formed and broke apart and reformed again.

After what felt like far too long, the cloud of blood subsided back to Jowan's hand, and the mage awoke again. "I think it's working," he said, voice slurred with exhaustion. "It was a lot easier to put the sword in her hand, and she held on to it for some time before losing it again. I kept putting it back, as long as I had the energy to do so."

They all smiled at that news. Zevran brought a bowl of water to clean off Jowan's hand, and then Owen healed the cut, after which Alistair and Jowan left. The mage was staggering noticeably by the time they got as far as the hallway outside Owen and Zevran's room; Alistair unceremoniously picked up the mage and began to carry him toward their own room.

Jowan said nothing, just smiled and wrapped his arms around Alistair's shoulders, and rested his head on the warrior's shoulder. He was asleep by the time Alistair reached their room, and didn't wake even as Alistair stripped him, dressed him in his nightshirt, and slipped him into the bed. He stood there for a couple of minutes, just watching the mage's sleeping face, then went and took a quick bath before changing into his own nightclothes.

Jowan muttered sleepily when he climbed into the bed, rolling over to press up against him, forehead resting against Alistair's chest and one arm draped over his waist. Alistair smiled, and brushed a kiss over the top of the smaller man's head before closing his own eyes and settling down to sleep.


	7. A Day for Flying

Jowan leaned out the window, scattering a handful of torn-up pieces of bread on the slates outside, then settled down in the window embrasure and waited quietly, watching. The bread only drew the attention of two pigeons and a lone seagull at first, then a handful of sparrows joined them, pecking up the smaller crumbs. He was beginning to think he was once again going to spend the morning sitting there without sight of any of the larger birds, when a shadow swept over the slates and all of the birds except the seagull took to the air, looking for cover. There was a thump on the roof overhead a moment later. The seagull mantled its wings, looking warily up at something perched out of his line of sight, then snatched up a piece of bread and flew hurriedly off.

Nothing happened for a minute, and then a dark shape dropped down from the dormer roof above the window to land beside the bread below; a raven, and quite a large one. It stood there a moment, head turning from side to side as it surveyed the scene out of first one golden eye, then the other, then it hopped a few paces across the slates before ducking its head to peck at a chunk of bread.

There were suddenly more shadows, and loud creaking caws, and the first raven was joined by two more, all of them eyeing each other suspiciously as they pecked up and hurriedly swallowed pieces of the bread, sometimes lifting wings or snaking their heads at each other in threat. He leaned forward a little, trying to get a closer look at them. One caught sight of the motion, as slight as it had been, and startled into the air; the three flew away. Jowan bit back a curse, settled more comfortably, and resumed waiting.

The sparrows returned, hurriedly pecking apart a chunk of bread into smaller pieces, snatching up and carrying off the bits as fast as they could tear them free. Then they took flight and fled again, as one of the ravens returned, thumping down to an awkward-looking landing on the slates. It sat there for some time, looking at him where he sat motionless inside the still-opened window, then jumped forward to snatch up another piece of bread before flying a few feet further away again. He stayed frozen, watching out of the corner of his eyes as it studied him while it ate the bit of bread, before sidling back toward the scattered bread to snatch another piece and retreat again.

Another of the ravens returned; this one was bolder, staying by the bread and peering at him in between pecks at the bread. The sparrows returned, fluttering down to grab the crumbs that scattered around it. It snapped at one that came too close to the piece of bread it was currently tearing chunks off of, but otherwise ignored them.

Jowan stared back, studying it, meeting that wary golden gaze. He imagined what it would feel like, to be that bird; that size, with those stiff black feathers, with golden eyes and a sharp-pointed black beak. With those long clawed feet, the claw-tips scratching against the slate tiles underfoot. That wariness. To _be_ a raven, and not be a man...

There was a shimmer, a strangeness. His view of everything changed. Sounds changed; smell almost vanished. Sight became unusually acute. He opened his mouth, and the sound he made was no human sound, but a croaking caw instead. Wings fluttered wildly nearby, and he startled backwards, falling down off the window seat to the floor. Not a long fall, but he landed poorly, on his back, and panicked, wings flailing and distressed cawing sounds breaking from him as he struggled to right himself, wings twitching spasmodically.

The door opened, and someone hurried into the room, which only made him feel more frightened; the movement of something that large and close made him want to flee away from whatever it was. _Too_ large, _too_ close, it sent his heart hammering in fright. He managed to flip himself over and take wing at last, but the person – _Alistair_, some part of him dimly recognized – had already reached and closed the window, trapping him. He flew clumsily around the room, barely avoiding crashing into the walls and cawing loudly in panic while Alistair shouted something, before fouling his wings on a turn, and falling to land with a thump on the bed. Claws tightened and tangled in bedding. He lay there for a moment, feeling dazed and frightened, one wing half-spread and the other bent painfully beneath him.

More people appeared at the door, peering in, then a sharp voice spoke and they withdrew. Someone entered the room, and Alistair hurriedly sat down. Then the new person vanished, and another bird was there; a crow, smaller than he. Female. Morrigan, he recognized, and calmed at last as she spoke reassuringly to him, her crow-language not far from what this raven-body knew. He straightened one wing, folded the other, managed to loosen the grip of his claws as his heartbeat settled, as panic receded. Alistair remained where he was, seated quietly on the window seat, and after a while Jowan took to the air again, a single strong flap of his powerful wings sufficing to carry him the little distance to land unsteadily on Alistair's leg. Worried amber eyes peered down into wary golden one as they studied each other.

Morrigan became herself again, but his fear was gone, now that things were quiet and no one was rushing around. She spoke softly, steadily, and Alistair slowly lifted one hand. Jowan tensed a moment, watching it, then relaxed again, and stood still as it moved toward him, the backs of slightly-curled fingers coming to rest against his feathered breast. He bent his own head, poking at the hand with his beak – cautiously, as gently as he could manage, knowing that he might damage Alistair if he poked too hard. Alistair was making a noise now, a crooning sound, speaking words that he didn't understand. Briar-the-mabari would have known what Alistair was saying, he dimly recognized, but to Jowan-the-raven they were just sounds, unimportant and uninformative.

He was suddenly human again, Alistair catching him before he otherwise would have toppled off of the larger man's lap and onto the floor.

"That was very odd," Jowan managed to say, as a wave of exhaustion swept over him. Morrigan had said smaller shapes were more work to hold, and that certainly seemed true; he could have spent most of the day as a mabari, without tiring himself anywhere near as much as his brief change to a raven had. Though he supposed some of that was just the newness of the shape, and how confusing it had felt to him; not to mention than panic was a very tiring emotion.

Morrigan was looking pleased. "That was very well done," she said approvingly. "Tomorrow once you are rested you should try it again, and perhaps you and I can practise flying. Indoors at first, I think, until you are used to taking the shape, and dealing with the instincts it gives you. For now, you should rest," she said firmly, and nodded farewell to Alistair before leaving the room.

"That was amazing," Alistair said once she'd gone, making no effort to hide the awe in his voice. "Sorry I scared you; I was worried you were going to fly away."

"I almost did," Jowan admitted, leaning tiredly against him. "Just as well you closed the window, or I might have. Thank you."

Alistair smiled warmly at him, and the two exchanged a brief but reassuring kiss.

"Bed?" Alistair asked softly.

"Yes. But only to sleep," Jowan said, a little regretfully.

Alistair laughed. "I'll stay with you anyway," he said, and did just that, curling up on the bed with Jowan while the mage took a nap.

* * *

"Do you think this is really making any real difference?" Jowan worriedly asked the others that night, after working his spell on Tria; the third night in a row he'd spent time in her dreams, returning the small-sword to her innermost dream-self's hand.

"I think it's doing something," Owen assured him. "She seemed much more... awake, today. More _here_, instead of wherever it is she's been hiding inside her head."

Zevran nodded in agreement. "I overheard her talking to Mara for a while today; only a short conversation, about the new clothing Mara was making for her, but she sounded quite rational throughout it. Considering the state she was in when we took her in, I would say she is much improved," he said quite seriously.

Jowan smiled, looking relieved. "I'm glad," he said. "She seems to be doing better in her dreams; they're quieter, the outer dreams, and in the inner dream she only lost hold of the sword two or three times. Though it's still just as tiring for me to stay there as when I was having to put it back into her hand over and over again."

Owen smiled. "You _are_ helping her, never doubt that," he said firmly, then glanced at Alistair, who helped the mage to his feet and led him off to bed. Owen, meanwhile, leaned down to deepen the sleep on the elf. He hesitated a moment, glancing over to where Zevran was preparing for bed, then touched her head a second time, weaving the sleep as deeply as he could.

Days, since he and Zevran had last managed any time together. Almost two weeks now, since they'd left Arl Eamon's estate to move in here, and having the elf constantly so close to hand but not being able to _do_ anything... just the occasional brief touch, the occasional all-too-short heated kiss... it was driving him mad. Tonight, he was determined to do something about it, regardless of Tria's presence in their room.

Three steps brought him up behind the naked assassin. He trusted Zevran's reflexes enough to say nothing, to just lift him up and toss him onto the bed, before peeling rapidly out of his own clothes. Zevran rolled over, raising himself up on his elbows and lifting one eyebrow enquiringly at him, before looking pointedly toward where Tria slept.

"I've put her as deeply under as I can," Owen explained quietly as he skinned out of his leggings and stockings. "She shouldn't wake."

Zevran smiled toothily, then lay back down, wiggling a little to make himself comfortable on the bed. The elf's body was betraying interest in the proceedings even before Owen dropped his own smalls to the floor and climbed up on the bed with him. Owen was half-erect already too, at the thought of finally spending some time enjoying himself with his lover. He knelt there beside Zevran for a long moment, just running his eyes hungrily over the elf's naked body. Zevran smiled, and twisted his hips to one side slightly, his shoulders to the other, then stretched, toes pointing and arms raised up over his head.

Owen growled approvingly, moving to straddle the elf's legs. He caught at Zevran's crossed wrists with one hand, pinning them down against the bed, running his other hand possessively down the elf's side and flank before leaning down to kiss him demandingly. Zevran moaned, mouth opening to allow Owen's tongue entrance. The mage took full advantage of that, his own tongue thoroughly exploring Zevran's mouth while his free hand roamed over what he could reach of the elf's body; long petting strokes down Zevran's torso from neck and shoulders to hips and groin, paying special attention to sensitive spots along the way, like nipples and belly, the skin between thigh and groin, brief teasing touched to his cock. He slid his hand underneath Zevran, cupping and massaging at his buttocks, lifting him slightly off the bed as his hand twisted and probed, one fingertip finding and pressing against the puckered folds of flesh hidden there, drawing a needy sound from the elf.

He cursed silently over there having been no time for a proper preparation; as large as he was, as small as the elf was, he daren't take Zevran there without careful stretching first, and would have to be satisfied with some other activity tonight. Soon, he promised himself, just as soon as Tria recovered enough that they'd have enough privacy in the evenings again. For now... well, there were many other things he and Zevran could do to bring pleasure to each other, and as long as it had been since they'd done _anything_ even halfway satisfactory, almost anything would please him tonight.

Owen paused for a moment, just looking at the elf so wantonly spread out underneath him, both of them fully erect now, Zevran's lips swollen and moist from kissing, eyes dark with lust, hair in disarray. He leaned down for a brief final kiss, then began arranging the elf the way he wanted him, regretting briefly as he sometimes did that the great difference in their heights made it tricky to find positions in which they could take pleasure of each other, where he himself could kiss or lick anything more interesting than the top of the elf's head.

For tonight he settled for a very simple position, Zevran's legs spread wide, his own weight mostly on his knees between them. He cast a simple grease spell and smeared quantities of the slick stuff over both of them before lowering himself enough to bring their groins into contact, with just enough weight to press Zevran down against the mattress. He'd liked how it felt, pinning Zevran down at the start of things, and did it again now, his weight on his elbows to either side of the elf, his hands grasping Zevran's wrists, holding them up and out to the sides. Zevran wiggled around, which had some quite interesting effects where their erections were in such close contact with each other, and then warm lips closed around one of Owen's nipples. He hissed and shivered as a wet tongue licked enticingly at him, as sharp teeth worried gently at his flesh, and regretted a little less their difference in height, since it put Zevran's head at such an intriguingly useful height.

"More," he husked out, closing his eyes and giving himself over to sensation as Zevran lavished attention on his nipples, straining upwards to lick and suck at the flesh below the base of Owen's neck. The mage moaned appreciatively, then began rocking his weight a little back and forth to rub them together. Zevran gasped, a faint cry escaping him as Owen's greater weight settled briefly on him, the rub and pinch of their erect flesh between them almost painful in its intensity before Owen eased off again.

They quickly forgot everything but the feeling of flesh sliding against flesh, Zevran's cries of pleasure muffled against Owen's chest, Owen's own gasps and cries as he ground against the slight elf far louder. He felt dizzy with the enjoyment of if, some part of him knowing he was currently gripping Zevran's wrists hard enough to leave bruises, and yet also knowing that it was all right to do so; that the pain added to the elf's pleasure, not detracted from it, and it was only a small hurt, something he could easily heal once they were done.

A weight hit his own back with sudden, bruising force, legs closing around him, a hand knotting in his hair and yanking his head painfully far back. Zevran screamed, wrists pulling free of Owen's grip as effortlessly as if he'd not been holding him down at all, the elf's cry full of anger, rage, despair, horror, all wrapped out in that one sudden sound. They froze, all three of them, Owen and Zevran and whomever it was on his back. He couldn't see who it was; all he could see was the canopy overhead, a glimpse of an arm slanting up and back out of the corner of one eye. There was something pressed hard against his throat. He could smell blood.

"No," Zevran pleaded, from somewhere below him. "If you kill him, you must kill me as well."


	8. Reassurances

"He was hurting you," Tria said, in that eerie sing-song voice of hers, the one Owen remembered so clearly from the day they'd first found her in the alienage. Only this time she wasn't sweetly asking if he'd brought her candy, or wanting to see the scar on his scalp to be sure he was himself.

"Yes, he was, but not in any way I did not wish him too," Zevran said, voice ragged with emotion. "Tria... do not do this thing. It would be kinder for you to cut _my_ throat than to kill him before me."

A knife; that was part of what was pressing against his throat, Owen realized. He remained frozen, frightened that any movement or sound from him might set her off, might make her finish the stroke that would lay open his throat and kill him, his own life's blood drowning him faster than any magic could hope to heal. He wondered for a moment what had stopped her from having already done so, then realized what else was pressing so firmly into the flesh under his jaw; knuckles. A hand; Zevran's hand, having caught Tria's hand or perhaps the knife itself, he wasn't sure which. There was still the smell of blood; either his own, or Zevran's, and possibly both. He was terrified now, terrified for both of them. His neck and back protested his arched-back position, his arms and legs beginning to shake with the tension of holding it, with the fear that filled him.

"But he was hurting you?" Tria again, sounding lost and almost equally frightened. "He was holding you down and hurting you," she said, voice firming, the sing-song quality gone, a dangerous note in it instead.

"Yes, but it was all right, Tria. I promise you, it was nothing I did not want him to do; it is just a game people sometimes like to play with each other. Tria, please, let go the knife," Zevran said, his voice cracking as he spoke. He was crying, Owen realized, which he'd only heard the elf do twice before; once after Zevran had finally told him about Rinna, and what had happened to her, and once again after Zevran had killed Taliesin, the man who'd killed Rinna, whom Zevran had also loved. Who'd killed her by cutting her throat while Zevran watched, he remembered, and ached for the pain Zevran must be feeling in this moment, seeing his worst nightmare being played out before him a second time.

"_Please_ Tria; do not kill him. I would rather you cut my own throat than kill someone I... someone... I..."

Owen's eyes filled with tears, knowing the word that Zevran couldn't bring himself to say, even now, even with someone's knife at Owen's throat. Owen blinked, and said it for him, ignoring now the knife pressed against his throat, the threat it represented. "Love," he rasped out, and blinked again, tears spilling down his cheeks. He could hear them dripping down onto the bed, or perhaps it was droplets of the blood he could still smell, or perhaps both. "I love you," he whispered, for a moment no longer caring about the knife, so long as Zevran knew that one thing first, that most important thing.

Zevran drew a great shuddering gulp of breath. When he spoke again, his voice was flat, all emotion kept out of it. "Do not make me watch again while someone I love is killed before me. Kill me first, Tria. If you must kill him, kill me first."

For a long moment all was still and silent, and then Tria suddenly moved; away, abandoning her knife, a keening cry escaping her. Zevran threw aside the dagger – the dagger he'd bought her, Owen recognized in the brief glimpse of it he had as it spun away – and then lunged upward. He almost knocked Owen over backwards as he hurled himself into Owen's arms, the elf babbling now in Antivan, words Owen couldn't understand apart from what was conveyed by the frantic and tearful tone.

The assassin was half-hysterical now that the immediate crisis had passed. He clung desperately to Owen, arms and legs wrapped as tightly around the mage as if Zevran was a frightened child holding on to its mother. Owen hugged him tightly in return, rocking him comfortingly back and forth, running hands up and down his back and trying to calm him. There was, he realized dimly after a while, still a strong smell of blood, and he worked one hand free to feel at his own throat. Just a small cut there, an inch or two long, and shallow; not the source of the blood he could see spattered on the sheets around him. But blood – blood somewhere, and he realized there was a warm wetness running down the skin of his back, from where Zevran's hands clutched so tightly onto him.

"Maker, your hand," he exclaimed in horror once he'd managed to unwrap Zevran enough to see the deep cut across the fingers of the elf's right hand; he had indeed caught the knife. Caught it by the blade, which had laid the flesh of his fingers open deep enough to show bone in at least one of the cuts. Owen cupped his hands around the wound, frantically channelling healing energy into it, eyes shutting for a moment as he concentrated on drawing the gash closed, on bringing back together severed muscles, nerves, blood vessels, and healing them, knitting flesh back together. For a while everything vanished from his consciousness but the wound, and the need to heal it.

Zevran was leaning heavily against him when he came back from the healing. Leaning against him, and talking very quietly and soothingly, voice sounding very tired. He had one hand held out toward Tria, curled up in a tight ball beside the pair of them, arms wrapped tightly around her knees and shoulders shaking as she cried into the bedding. Whatever anger Owen might had felt because of her actions vanished at the sight of the expression on her face when she raised it enough to peer at the two of them through the fall of her disordered hair, looking heartbroken and miserable.

She had thought he was hurting Zevran; thought he was doing to the elf what cruel men had done to _her_. Had moved to save Zevran, misunderstanding the situation. Their own fault, really, for having gone ahead with her sleeping right there in the room, when they knew her dreams were restless, and the spell might not hold.

"It is all right, Tria," Zevran said softly, voice tired but gentle, so very gentle. _He_ understood, clearly, what had moved her to attack. "It's all right. We all managed to frighten each other very much, did we not? Owen and I scared you, and you scared us, but look, see? We are all fine. No real harm was done. Come, come here my dear, let us all say we are sorry to each other."

A gentle and soothing voice, the elf's hand held out invitingly to her the whole time. She uncurled a little, enough to reach out and put her own hand into Zevran's. It was shaking, Owen could see, as she trembled in fear and stress over what had just happened. Zevran let it rest there, closing his hand only a little around it, voice switching to some other language – _not_ Antivan, it didn't sound like that – for just a few words. Tria's shoulders shook and she made an odd hiccuping sound; a brief, broken laugh, Owen recognized in some surprise. Zevran had said something that had made her laugh.

The assassin tugged gently on her hand, voice still talking away soothingly, and she uncurled further, looking fearfully at Owen for a moment. Looking at how he was holding Zevran, he thought; the elf curled up in his lap, one of his arm's wrapped comfortingly around the elf's shoulders, both of them naked and daubed with blood and still, he began to blush as he realized, smeared with grease and at least partially erect, damn the poor timing of certain physical responses to danger. Not exactly what he'd consider a reassuring sight, and tightened his grip on Zevran's healed hand, that he still held cupped in his own.

"Tell her it's all right," Zevran said softly.

He forced a smile, realizing how tired and upset he was when the corners of his mouth trembled, not wanting to hold a smile. When he had to blink to clear his eyes before he spoke, his voice emerging in a tremulous rasp. "I'm fine. Zevran is fine. We're all fine," he said, as reassuringly as he could, which probably wasn't very.

Zevran tugged on her hand again, speaking another few words in that third language, and in a rush that made Owen freeze in startled fear for a moment, moved toward them. Zevran's hand lifted free from Owen's, the assassin's arms closing around Tria as she clung to him almost as desperately as he, just minutes before, had clung to Owen. Owen hesitantly wrapped his free arm around her as well, then his own emotions caught up to events and he tightened his other arm rather more firmly around Zevran's shoulders, burying his face in the elf's thoroughly mussed hair and crying in relief that they had all survived the incident – the accident? The misunderstanding – with nothing worse than a bad fright all around and only a very little blood lost. It could have been worse. It could have been so much worse.

Zevran was talking again, voice low and soothing, sometimes in words Owen understood, sometimes in ones he didn't. Somehow the assassin got the three of them lying down together, all spooned up with Tria to one side of Zevran and Owen to the other, his longer arm easily reaching over both elves as they huddled all together, seeking the simplest comfort of all, that of a warm body close by, ignoring the state of the sheets and the mess smeared all over them.

Owen buried his face in Zevran's hair again, drawing in a deep, reassuring breath of the assassin's scent. He felt a last few tears leak out of swollen-feeling eyes, and then for a while there was simply nothing, not even dreams, as simple exhaustion dragged him down into sleep.

* * *

Talking woke him. Zevran, talking softly to Tria, who had rolled over at some point while Owen had slept, and was now curled up in a ball again, her head pressed against Zevran's chest while the assassin gently stroked her hair. Crying again, Owen thought, and pressed a silent kiss to Zevran's bare shoulder to let the elf know he was awake, but otherwise remaining silent and still, leaving things in Zevran's hands.

"You are my sister," Zevran was saying, in that very gentle, soothing voice. "There is a bond of blood between us now, and I say it makes you my sister. You thought I was in danger, and moved to help me, and that is not something I can forget. Do you mind being my sister?"

She shook her head, and said something, the words quiet enough and muffled by the angle of her head so that Owen did not catch what she said, though Zevran evidently did. He laughed, a brief warm chuckle, an earthy chuckle that made Owen's ears heat with self-conscious embarrassment. "No, he is _not_ my brother, nor yours. But you have nothing to fear from him. He and I are" – a word that Owen didn't understand, that third language again, he supposed – "And he would never knowingly hurt me, or you."

"But he _was_ hurting you?"

"A game, _lethallan_, that lovers sometimes play with each other. A game I like very much, though I am sorry we frightened you with it. It could just as easily have been I holding him down, rather than he pinning me," Zevran added, voice roughening just slightly, and Owen blushed and had to bury his own face against Zevran's shoulder for a moment, feeling his cock express rather noticeable interest in the flood of mental images the assassin's words had conjured. His blush deepened even further when he raised his head again only to find Tria had uncurled enough to be peering at him over Zevran's shoulder.

"But he's so _big_," she protested to Zevran.

Zevran chuckled again, and shifted, rolling over and craning his head enough to smile toothily at Owen. "Yes, quite gloriously large. But do not doubt I could do it, if the two of us had a wish to," he said, and then to Owen's further embarrassment Zevran snaked one arm free, fingers threading into Owen's hair to draw him down for a rather heated kiss. He was torn between his awareness of Tria being right there beside them, watching, and just enjoying the kiss.

Zevran rolled upright and sat leaning back against Owen's belly with perfect aplomb after the kiss ended, smiling at Tria. "You are my sister, and he is _emma vhenan_, and if I tell you some night to _hamin na inan_, do you know what to do?"

Tria laughed, looking unexpectedly delighted. "_Hami n'inan_," she corrected, and then covered her eyes with her hands.

"Is that how you say it here? We say it otherwise in the north. But the meaning is the same, yes?"

"Yes," she agreed, dropping her hands and smiling again, and gave Owen such a sly, amused look that he found himself blushing again.

"Translate for the poor shem?" Owen asked as lightly as he could.

Zevran laughed, and slid down a little so he could drape one arm over back Owen's waist. "You have seen how crowded the living arrangements for the elves are, in the alienage here. And this is one of the better ones; many are much more crowded than this. Often there are many people living and sleeping together in a single room, and no privacy other than a, um... deliberate ignoring of activities around one. So _rest your eyes_, we often say first, particularly around young children, which is the way of telling people that whatever is about to happen is something private, something to be ignored. It is not happening, other than for the people involved."

"_Ahhh_," Owen said, understanding immediately. The woman who'd run the child-gang he'd been part of had a similar saying, though rather more crudely phrased, for when she was entertaining guests. "So if you and I want to, err... and Tria is here, one of us should say that first? _Hami_-whatever...?"

"Hamin na inan," Zevran said, at the same time as Tria said "Hami n'inan." They looked at each other and laughed, and Owen found himself smiling.

Something had changed last night, he was certain, when Tria had been scared and had moved to save Zevran; not just the most obvious things, such as their joint fright, and Zevran's sudden determination to consider her his sister, but something with Tria as well. She suddenly seemed so very _normal_ compared to how she had been; as if some part of her, after being in hiding for so long, had finally woken up and returned.

Zevran yawned. "None of us have slept much tonight,:" he pointed out as he struggled to sit more upright again. "But I fear we should rise now anyway. We are all filthy and need a good bath, and these sheets will need a change before we lie down again anyway. Come, let us all go bathe."

The two elves climbed out of bed, and Owen followed, grimacing as he took in the state of the sheets and the flaking dried blood smeared over both himself and Zevran. Not to mention the grease, smeared on all three of them and the sheets after their having shared the bed.

"Go start the water running, lethallan," Zevran told Tria. "We will be in shortly."

She nodded and hurried off, and as soon as she was gone Zevran turned back to Owen, stepping close to him and dragging him down for another heated kiss. Owen kissed him back just as hungrily. "And what is en... emma vhana?"he asked a touch breathlessly when it ended.

Zervan grinned briefly. "Emma vhenan," he corrected. "Do you truly need to ask? My heart," he finished on a whisper.

Owen swallowed thickly, and cupped his hands to either side of Zevran's face, studying it intently, looking searchingly into the elf's eyes. "Emma vhenan," he agreed, voice husky, and kissed him back. Not a heated kiss, but a very long and tender one, lasting until he could feel Zevran trembling in reaction to it. He tangled his fingers into the assassin's hair, tugging his head back to expose his throat, kissing his way down the length of it, though the angle was awkward and uncomfortable for both of them. Nipped, gently, at the elf's earlobe, then finally straightened up and sighed. "Bath," he said, by an effort keeping his voice firm, hopefully not betraying the flood of strong emotions he was currently feeling.

Zevran smiled. "Of course," he agreed, and led the way to the bathing chamber, already filling with warm steam as the tub filled, Tria perched on the edge of it and investigating the shelf full of scented soaps and oils.


	9. Family

It was good, after the events of the night before, to just be sitting quietly in the tub, all three of them having managed to fit into it, though only just. To sit there, and feel Owen's fingers beginning to scrub at his scalp, as he himself had just finished washing Tria's hair a minute ago. She sat huddled up in the end of the tub before him, calmly rinsing the soap from her hair, not in the least self-conscious about sharing the bath with the pair of them.

She was, he decided, a marvel. And most definitely now his sister, in every way that mattered to him, a sister by adoption. And she _understood_ what he meant by that, when he had offered it to her; the family that one chose for oneself, which was not necessarily the family one was born into. A profound respect for her, and a desire for close friendship and companionship, as well as a promise to consider her untouchable as far as any sexual matters went. That she also so readily trusted _Owen_, on his word, touched him deeply. He would need to make sure that Owen understood as well, though he was relatively certain the man did; but best to be sure that it was entirely clear to him.

He hid a smile as Owen shifted position slightly, feeling the evidence of the mage's interest brushing against his skin underwater. Interest in _him_, he was quite smugly certain, for all that Tria dressed only in soapsuds would normally have been a sight to pique any man's interest. He found himself remembering his own words from earlier – that it might as easily have been himself pinning down the much larger man – and felt a stirring of lust at the thought. He would enjoy that, if it ever happened; he would enjoy that greatly. But he also enjoyed very much allowing the larger man to control him, and saw no reason to change things unless Owen, too, showed an interest in experiments in that direction. He smirked, remembering the mage's reaction to his words. There was certainly a possibility of it, anyway.

Owen. A warm feeling filled him, as he considered the mage, and he sighed happily, leaning back a little more firmly against the man. Remembering even as he did the madness of last night, the blood – his own, Owen's – dripping off the blade of the knife to spatter on him and on the sheets around him. His absolute terror that he would once again see someone he cared for killed before his eyes, throat cut like an animal at slaughter. The bone-deep realization that he did indeed _love_ Owen, that word forbidden to such as he. That it would kill him, if Tria killed the mage. If _anyone_ killed the mage. He did not think he could survive such a loss a second time.

He swallowed around a lump in his throat, remembering how he'd been unable to even voice the word, to say aloud what he felt for Owen, as if admitting it would end it. And Owen – yanked unmercifully backwards, Tria's hand knotted in his hair, her knife at his throat, trembling with strain and fear, and yet still whispering the words, "I love you".

His heart had sang in that moment, even as he feared so terribly for Owen and himself. But the gods had been merciful; Tria had heard the words, and moments later had _understood_ them, and what they meant; had realized that she had been mistaken in her actions. She had been distraught, afterwards, as had he, as had all three of them really.

Things had changed between them, then, between all three of them. Though it hadn't really sunken in for him until he'd awoken a little while ago, to find Tria already awake and staring at him, a level of awareness in her eyes that had been largely missing since they'd first brought her out of the alienage. She was _awake_ again, the missing part of her roused from wherever it had gone by the events of the night before. Awake, and not frightened to have woken in bed with the two of them; a little wary, yes, a little worried and upset by how close she'd come to killing Owen, now that she understood that what had been happening was not an attack, not something forced, but something that Zevran had welcomed.

She had picked up his hand after a while, and studied where the deep gash had been, lightly touching the faint line of scar that was all that remained of it, and then started crying. He'd comforted her, as much as he could, and realized as he did so that he felt something for her; not attraction or lust – she'd been too childlike until now to arouse such a feeling in him, and besides, there was Owen now. But she'd moved to save him last night, thinking him in danger, and there had only been a handful of people in his life who would ever have done any such thing. And that meant very much to him; _she_ meant very much to him, as a result.

Affection, then, and respect for her skills, for she _was_ skilled, one of the few who presented any real challenge to him when the group of them sparred. He felt a strong desire to protect her, if she ever needed it, as she had tried to protect him. Along with a certainty that the two of them might, in time, become real friends; another rare thing for him. Friendship was not something a Crow could normally allow himself; feign it when necessary, yes, but real friendship? True friendship? Very rare. Yet he had several _friends_ now. Arren. Alistair and Jowan. Mara, to some lesser degree, because of her own attachment to Owen. Why _not_ Tria as well.

Telling her that he considered her his sister now had been impulsive, and yet even as the words had left his lips, he had felt sure it was the right thing to say, the right thing to do. It gave her a place, a family again, connection – all things she needed. Things he, perhaps, needed as well.

He sighed in contentment and pleasure as Owen scrubbed his back, and grinned when Tria glanced over her shoulder at him at the sound, an amused smile on her lips. She turned away and rose to her feet, stripping off most of the moisture clinging to her before stepping out of the tub and reaching for a towel on a nearby shelf. Zevran took advantage of the additional room in the tub to straighten his legs into a more comfortable position.

She wrapped the towel around herself when she was done, and sat down on the edge of the tub, studying both of them intently.

"I remember you now," she said suddenly. "Owen. You were a lot skinnier before."

"And shorter. And a lot dirtier, too," Owen said agreeably. "You were just a child then. But I suppose I was too."

She smiled, briefly, a smile nothing like the rare smiles they'd seen from her before today; a _real_ smile. She studied Zevran next, and frowned slightly, then smiled shyly. "Brother," she said.

He grinned, and reached to take her hand in his. "Sister," he said. "I've never had one, you know. A few children I was close with, when I was a little boy growing up, before the Crows bought me. But no one I have ever thought of as family before. You are the first."

She nodded, a serious expression on her face. "I had family. Dead or disappeared now, except for Soris and Shianni."

"Would you like to visit them?" Owen asked.

She looked thoughtful, then slowly nodded. "Yes. At least long enough to let them know that I am well again. I do not wish to remain in the alienage."

"Then you shall travel with us. I shall be glad to have your company," Zevran said softly.

She smiled, and squeezed his hand before releasing it. "Don't take too long," she told them, as she rose and headed for the door. "I'm hungry."

As soon as the door had shut behind her he turned around to face Owen, kneeling between his legs and looking anxiously at the man. "You do not mind, do you? That I have adopted her as my sister?"

Owen smiled, lips crooking in amusement. "I don't mind. And it's hardly something you need to clear with me. I'm your..." He paused a moment, and swallowed, before continuing. "Your master, not your owner. And only because _you_ allow it; I know it is only because you chose to surrender that I may do with you as I've done."

Zevran smiled warmly back at him."I do not regret my surrender. I..." He had to pause too, and when he continued, his voice was husky. "The words will never come easily to me, I think. I have a lifetime of training that tells me I should not allow myself to feel what I do; that this is dangerous, not just to me, but to you. And it is; I have enemies. Did they suspect, they would seek some way to use the knowledge of it against me. But I _do_ love you."

The expression that crossed Owen's face at the words made him stop breathing for a moment. Then strong arms closed around him, enclosing him in a crushingly tight hug. He laughed, and managed to get his own arms free and around Owen's neck, hugging him back and then kissing whatever bits of the larger man he could reach, pleased when Owen kissed him back in turn, showers of kisses all over each other's face and neck and shoulders. He told himself that the moisture on both their faces afterwards was just bathwater, but inside he knew it was not. And was pleased, _elated_, to have his emotion so strongly and obviously returned.

He wished there was time to show Owen, right this minute, how very much he cared; to pamper and pleasure _his mage_ – words he had only used in his innermost thoughts before, but now certainly true – to show Owen how moved he was, how devoted.

Owen seemed to divine his thoughts. "Tonight," he growled out, and nipped at the edge of Zevran's ears. "I don't care if there's darkspawn trying to break down the door. _Tonight_."

"Yes, emma vhenan," Zevran agreed, all that needed to be said.

They rose from the bath, Owen allowing Zevran to tend him; drying him off, shaving his cheeks smooth again – stealing a kiss when that little task was complete – drying and combing out and braiding back his hair, briefly standing still while Owen did the same for him. They returned to the main room to find Tria already dressed, sitting near the fireplace and busy with cleaning and sharpening her dagger. She politely turned her back to them while they changed, then the three headed downstairs together in search of breakfast.


	10. Flying Lessons

Jowan looked up from his breakfast, and froze for a moment. Even at a glance, it was obvious that there was something different about Tria as she entered the kitchen with Zevran and Owen, the two elves walking together in front of the mage, who had a slightly amused grin on his face as he watched the pair. She wasn't moving like the easily frightened, childlike person she'd been for as long as Jowan had known her; she walked with confidence, she almost _swaggered_ as she entered the room. Her head was lifted, eyes bright with interest as she looked around, not quite as if seeing the place for the first time, but more as if it was some place she only vaguely remembered and was re-establishing familiarity with.

He put down his fork, rising to his feet, aware he was staring at her, aware of silence falling as the others turned to see what he was staring at. The movement drew her eyes to his; she paused, and then suddenly smiled. "You're Jowan," she said.

"Yes," he said hoarsely. "You're better?"

She nodded, smiling warmly at him. "Yes. And I thank you, for everything you did to help me," she said, then looked around the room, at all of them in turn. "I thank all of you."

Mara made a noise and rose to her feet, hurrying across the room and then coming to an abrupt stop. Tria grinned at her, and the tiny elf made a delighted sound, then the two hugged. Wynne, too, rose and walked over at a more decorous pace, and hugged Tria in turn.

"I am so pleased, my dear," Wynne said. "How do you feel? Do you remember much of what has happened while you were indisposed?"

"I feel well," Tria told her. "And I remember at least some of what has happened over the last year, though much of it feels... oddly dreamlike. As if it wasn't really me it was happening to, but someone else, like stories I've heard and then dreamed about. But I remember you," she said warmly, and looked around at all of them again. "I remember all of you, and how kind you've all been to me."

"I would like to examine you later, if you'll permit it," Jowan said as Tria walked over to take a seat at the table.

She nodded her head. "Of course," she said to him, and then gave Zevran a pleased smile as the elf moved to stand by the chair beside the one she'd taken, and poured her a mug of tea before pouring for himself and Owen, who'd sat down in the chair beyond that.

Jowan watched with some bemusement as the assassin served food to the two of them before finally serving himself and taking a seat between them. He'd seen Zevran do such things for Owen many times already – it was clearly part of the dynamic between the two – but he did find himself wondering why the elf was serving Tria as well. Especially when Tria smiled happily every time she looked at the elf. _Surely_ Zevran hadn't... had he?

Owen certainly didn't seem at all worried by Zevran's behaviour toward Tria, and as protective as he'd been to date over her as a friend from his childhood, Jowan couldn't imagine that he'd have tolerated Zevran doing anything that might upset the girl. Surely there must be some innocent explanation for the obvious closeness between the two elves.

Alistair touched Jowan's arm, regaining his attention before resuming the conversation that they'd been having before the three had entered. "So... Sten's room, after breakfast?" the warrior asked.

Jowan nodded. "Yes, assuming Morrigan is fine with that," he said, and leaned forward to look past Arren to her.

She nodded. "Of course. Best to get your training in your new form done as soon as possible. If you do well enough indoors, perhaps we'll try a flight outdoors later."

Owen looked up from spreading jam on a piece of bread. "Flight?"

Morrigan smiled. "Jowan has succeeded in learning a second form; that of a raven. I'll be helping him to learn to fly properly after breakfast; I believe that the dining-hall that Sten is using as a practise room is big enough to cover the basics in, so that Jowan does not have to deal with outdoor flight before he's ready for it."

Owen nodded, looking interested. "May I come and watch?" he asked.

"I have no objections," Morrigan said. "Jowan?"

"Me neither. Mara will be there too, since she's already learned to fly."

"Not that I'll be doing anything more than watching," Mara said, smiling slightly. "Ravens fly rather differently than hawks do, and besides, Morrigan is far more familiar with this magic. I'm a raw beginner still; she's a master at it."

Morrigan smiled at her. "You'll master it quickly enough, my dear – have you given any thought yet to a second form?"

"Yes, but I can't decide. Something to use on land, I think. But I've no real interest in becoming a mabari like Jowan does. Some other animal that people will generally ignore and leave alone would be better, perhaps."

Morrigan nodded. "Well, I'm sure you'll think of something suitable. We can discuss options later, if you'd like."

Mara nodded agreement, mouth currently too full of toast and honey to speak.

* * *

It was actually a fair-sized group of them that gathered in the empty dining hall for Jowan's flying practise. All the mages were there, as well as Alistair, Zevran, and Tria. Sten had absented himself, preferring to avoid the working of magic as much as he could. Morrigan had the group of them gather over near the windows, while she and Jowan went off to the far end of the room together.

"Change when you're ready to," she told him, and then changed herself into a crow.

He took a deep, calming breath, glanced down the room at Alistair for a moment – reassured, as always, by the man's presence – and then concentrated. With all his practise in becoming a mabari already, taking the new form again was not too hard for him; just a short period of concentration, recalling everything that he knew about ravens, and then...

A lower viewpoint, and a wider one, colours somehow sharper, movement something that pulled at his attention. Even the slight movement of the watching people. He ruffled his feathers, unsettled, turning his head from side to side to view them; easier to see when he had one eye turned toward them, the vision at the edges not being as acute, and "edges" seeming to include when he had both eyes on something. A reversal of the human pattern; that instead of turning toward something to bring both eyes into focus on it, he had to turn away for a better view.

The crow beside him tapped him lightly with her beak, drawing his attention and startling him, so that he hopped away, wings half unfolding, before remembering that the crow was Morrigan, and that he was here to learn.

Concentrating in this form was harder than as a mabari; so much distracted him. Sounds seemed less important; smell as well, while vision kept tugging at his attention. He turned a bit more, so he could watch Morrigan-crow with one eye and the people with the other, fascinated by the sparkling some of them gave off just breathing, as shiny bits of their clothing shifted and flashed light at him. And found himself watching them again instead of paying any attention to the crow.

Morrigan pecked him, mantling at him and making an annoyed cawing sound, then darted her head at his tail feathers. He quickly turned further, moving that end out of her reach, and suddenly found himself feeling much calmer; the people and their distracting movement were out of sight behind him now. He settled, finally listening properly to the crow. To Morrigan.

She spread her wings, her claws digging into a crack between floorboards, and then flapped them; slowly at first, and then harder. Clumsily, he did the same, having to duck his head to see his feet and find a like crack to grip onto. He didn't hold on hard enough at first, claws scratching against dry wood and almost pulling loose at his first few flaps. He was startled, not having realized how powerfully the downbeat of his spread wings would lift him. He did better on the second try, tips of claws sinking into the wood as he flapped strongly, _feeling_ how the wings moved, the slide and fold of long muscles across his back and anchored to his deep breastbone. Feeling, too, how the lift changed as he changed the shape of his wings, instincts waking and filling his brain with knowledge he hadn't known before; if this angle, this lift. Spread wide for gliding; tuck close for dives. The spread of tail, a rudder to guide him through the air...

Morrigan-crow suddenly jumped into the air, taking flight. Instincts kicked in for that as well, a startled '_fly, now!_' feeling that had him following her into the air before his brain could even catch up to events. She flew down the length of the room, turned just short of the clustered humans, flew back. He followed, cawing once in surprise and triumph and joy. His first frightened flight, in the far-too-small room upstairs had been anything but joyful. But _this_... this was exhilarating. This was wonderful, even in so confined a space. He wanted more room; he wanted a whole sky to fly around in.

Morrigan dropped back down to the floor, cawing imperiously at him. Reluctantly he dropped as well, spreading his tail and backwinging, landing with a thump on the floor. Too hard, his legs splaying for a moment as he almost went tail-over-head. He crouched there, breathless, wings still half-spread. Morrigan-crow vanished, Morrigan-person reappearing in its place, and she crouched down, one hand reaching slowly out toward him. He pointed his beak warily at her hand, gaping slightly in preparation to peck at her, then remembered himself, and turned it away instead. She touched his back, talking softly, and he folded his wings. And then he was himself again, crouched on the floor and tired.

"That was very well done," she said, patting him on the shoulder. "Rest for a few minutes, and then we'll try it again."

He nodded, and turned his head to look at Alistair, smiling when Alistair grinned approvingly at him as well.


	11. Sparring Practise

It proved to be a long and entertaining day; it had taken considerable time before watching Jowan's flying lessons had palled, by which time the little mage was exhausted from the strain of maintaining such a small form, and was taken off for a nap by Alistair. Likely other things as well, once he was feeling less tired, the warrior often seeming in need of reassuring physical contact after any time that Jowan had been something anything particularly worrisome in the way of magic. Though that of course was their business, not his. Not that he couldn't still entertain himself with wonderings in the privacy of his own mind, if he truly wished to, but they were friends, and it was impolite to do so.

What with them already being in the right room for it anyway – and only indoors being suitable, it having turned to rain outside – Zevran proposed that they have a little sparring session. Morrigan and Wynne left; the one to likely also rest, the other to return to the kitchen, which had become very much her domain during their stay here so far.

He started with Tria, the two of them beginning as slowly and cautiously as they had the first time the two of them had sparred. Her skills had changed just slightly with her recovery; still just as fast and just as good, but with more thoughtful attention to what she was doing; she was thinking at least one, perhaps two moves ahead of where she had in their previous matches. And using much better weapons, so that he had to guard carefully against both small sword and offhand dagger, not a lone ground-thin blade that had likely started its life as a kitchen knife.

It made the fight better, and he knew the expression on his face matched the fierce exultant grin on her own. It was like a dance, a dangerous one, and it was play for them as well, because they trusted each other enough to know that any attack was not meant to truly harm, but would be pulled or turned aside if not properly blocked or parried. They had been fighting furiously a good quarter of an hour before he finally found a move she didn't know, and had to do so, skipping backwards out of range even as the caress of his turning blade opened a thin line of red on her arm. She froze, as did he, both of them quickly looking over each other and themselves to be sure that was the only injury; with blades as sharp as theirs, and so fast-moving a fight, real injury was possible if they misjudged.

Owen had been sitting in a corner of the room watching, with Mara perched in her habitual spot in his lap; not something she had done much of late, but clearly a comfort to both of them. He spoke a quiet word to her now, and she slipped off to the side, settling herself back against the wall while Owen rose and walked over. Though _walked _was too tame a word for his oversized friend; _stalked_, perhaps, with the grace of one of the great northern cats that he had once told the mage that he resembled, before he'd tamed the mage's mane of shaggy golden-brown hair into a smooth ponytail. A glance at the cut on Tria's arm to be sure it was nothing worse than the shallow break in the skin that it was, a touch, and it was gone, just a smear of blood on her dark skin left to mark its brief existence.

Zevran sparred with Owen after that, at a slower pace; the mage was good with the sword that he was learning how to use, but he was merely a highly skilled beginner, not a master of it. Still, a good workout, and a chance to enjoy watching his mage in motion as they practised. Owen's size was misleading; one expected him to move slower than he did, but a history as a cut-purse in his youth meant that Owen had learned speed, and balance, and even decent footwork before he'd ever set hand to sword. His size gave him the strength to handle a sword as if it weighed no more than a dagger. Deceptive; that was his style. Especially when he brought his mage powers into play, and even being sure that he was where you thought he was became uncertain, illusion distorting his true position and pose. It had been very unsettling to fight him in that mode at first, though Zevran was slowly building up a store of tricks for dealing with the uncertainly, the simplest being to watch the chest and aim for the average position of some part of him rather than trying to pick out a too-specific target. Not skills he planned to ever use against the mage with any real intent, but if they ever met some hostile arcane warrior, as unlikely as that supposedly was? Then he would be prepared.

He took a break next, sitting beside Mara and flirting outrageously with her – which amused them both but otherwise drew no response from her – while watching Owen and Tria spar. It was the first time the two of them had ever done so, which worried him at first. But they started off very slowly, as Zevran and Tria had, and only gradually built up speed as they felt out each other's skills. They never reached full fighting speed, wisely settling for a mere testing of each other today, like a friendly conversation between them rather than a vicious dance.

The dwarves came in with Sten partway through, and stood watching, Oghren briefly explaining Owen's special powers to the other two dwarves. Zevran studied them with interest; he had not met Mica and Leian before their recent arrival, not having been into to Deep Roads with Arren, but he had heard their story, both as told by Arren afterwards, and from Mica since their arrival. Treachery, betrayal, a chance meeting of two dwarves in the dark places under the earth, one fled for his life and one exiled by her own brother, now King of Orzammar. It made him feel almost homesick, it being a manoeuvre worthy of Antivan politics, complete with the murder of close family members.

The two were clearly a couple. It showed at least briefly any time one of them looked at the other; a certain something about the look in their eyes, the attitudes of their bodies toward each other. They would have been considered an appalling mis-match in their home culture. That Mica's sister Rica was involved with Bhelen and had born him a son was accepted, even applauded; it raised her and her family out of the slums, made then nobles, provided new blood and kept that smallest of classes from becoming dangerously inbred over time. An intriguing idea, that last, and one which a few noble houses he knew of could have stood to have made past use of.

But what was accepted for noble sons and duster daughters was unacceptable the other way around. That Leian, an Aeducan princess, had become involved with the duster Mica in turn? Shocking! Unthinkable, in their stratified culture, for any son she bore him would have been no prince, but a duster like his father. _In Orzammar_ at least; and there was the key that unlocked whatever doors had been shut between them, that with her exile Leian was a princess no longer, and in their leaving the Deep Roads the two had become surfacers together, leaving all class behind; equals at last, at least in theory.

The incomers chose, once Owen and Tria quit the field, to spar as well; everyone watching first while Sten sparred with Oghren, both of them using the large two-handed weapons they preferred – though what was large for Oghren would have been too small for Sten, and the mismatch in their heights led to the two having to adjust how they fought against each other. Sten might have the advantage of reach and strength, but Oghren was almost as strong, and much harder to hit. A very interesting fight to watch.

Mica and Leian went next, the duster fighting with twinned daggers against the woman, who used a sword and shield, and smiled as fiercely when she fought as Tria did, Mica's own face staying still in an impassive mask. A fast fight, and a vicious one; almost as fast as Zevran and Tria's earlier sparring had been, the two clearly well-used to fighing against each other.

It was a pity the room wasn't larger than it was; while more than just two people could do simple exercises in the place, for sparring such as this there was only room for one pair to go at a time. So Mica and Leian changed to Mica and Sten, and then Zevran took a turn against Sten, and then Zevran fought Leian. Leian and Tria were considering a pass together when Wynne showed up at the door of the room to remind them that it was past time for lunch, and they were all content to call an end to the session and go eat the good things she had cooked.

After lunch Mara and Wynne took Tria off to do the final fitting on some clothes the mages were making for her. Owen and Zevran cleaned up the dishes from lunch, Zevran washing while Owen dried and put away, his great height more easily able to deal with the high shelves in the kitchen. The room still smelled pleasantly of freshly-cut wood from the shelves having been recently replaced, and the rather menial and domestic task was pleasantly relaxing, especially since Owen kept 'accidentally' bumping into or brushing up against Zevran as he edged past him to reach shelves and then return. Far closer than he needed to be, given the actual size of the kitchen, and causing considerable amusement for both of them. Not to mention a certain degree of frustration, Tria's interruption the night before having occurred at an unfortunately early point in their activities. By the time the last dish was dried and put away, he was beginning to think he'd have been happy to bend Owen over one of the work tables and ravish him – or better yet, and more appropriately to their current relationship, been bent over by him – except he was reasonably certain Wynne would take great exception to any such activity.

Still, he did manage a quite satisfyingly frustrating kiss with the mage before the scuff of approaching footsteps drove them apart again. Said approach proving to be Jowan and Alistair, Jowan looking knowingly amused at finding the two of them alone in the kitchen and both rather red of face, while Alistair was happily oblivious, and bouncing along in the puppyish way that said that _he_, at least, had enjoyed a satisfactory amatory encounter recently.

The two were looking for lunch, having slept through it – and Jowan somehow managed to say that with a straight face, which Zevran had to admire. He rather doubted _sleep_ had been involved by that point of the day. Owen, that frustrating man, showed no signs of wishing to retreat from the kitchen – say, to the privacy of their own room – and instead sent Zevran to fetch him a tankard of ale, sitting down to keep Jowan and Alistair company while they ate. Zevran smiled and nodded and fetched two, sitting down as well.

Jowan talked to them about what it had been like, being a raven, and the difference between that and being a mabari. Owen was clearly fascinated, especially to hear that the changes seemed to bring with them not just a change in body and perceptions, but instinctive changes as well; knowledge that Jowan had had no way of learning before being a raven, of how to control and use and respond with the body he inhabited.

Jowan gave his fellow mage an amused look after a while of being pelted with questions. "Are you sure you don't want to learn this shape-shifting skill yourself?" he asked.

"What? No, still no interest, though this facet of the magic is certainly... intriguing," Owen said, and frowned thoughtfully, then looked back and forth between Alistair and Zevran. "And it makes me think of Flemeth, for some reason. Didn't you say she'd turned into a dragon, when Arren confronted her on Morrigan's behalf? I find myself wondering what one would learn, in such a form. What instincts and skills a dragon has. And also... was it merely a high dragon whose form she had taken? Or something more."

A silence fell at that. Alistair frowned in thought, then looked worriedly at Zevran. "She didn't look like the dragon we fought above Haven."

"No, she did not," Zevran agreed, feeling a touch of unease himself. "Larger, and with more horns; a different skin colour as well, though I thought that was merely a difference such as one might see between a black horse and a grey one, or a green snake and a brown. Not necessarily greatly significant."

"Though a change in colour and shape can indicate a considerable change in abilities as well; a draft horse versus a racing one. Or a poisonous snake versus one safe to handle," Jowan pointed out quietly.

"If one could shape-shift not just to any dragon, not just to a high dragon... but to an _old god_ dragon... what instincts and skills might one have _then?_" Owen said quietly.

"I do not know, but I think we should take these thoughts to Arren and Morrigan," Zevran said grimly. "One would hope it is something of no significance, just a wild flight of fancy, but if it is not? Than this may be a danger we must remain aware of."

* * *

It was late that evening before Owen and Zevran finally made it to their room, Owen's sudden thought having led to a conversation that consumed them all for the remainder of the day, including right through supper, with much heated debate. They were all unsettled by the idea, even with Flemeth presumably safely dead.

"It worries me to say it, but I begin to think that even knowing she is supposedly dead is no longer reassuring for me," Morrigan said. "She is a master of illusion, among her many talents. That you killed her is possible, and yet I fear 'tis not a certain thing. I wish now that I had gone along with you; I might have been able to tell if it was mere illusion or a true form of herself you fought. And whether or not she truly died. But 'tis too late now, and the south is no place we can currently travel to find out, not until after the darkspawn horde is dealt with."

Arren had, in the end, decided it was something they could do nothing constructive about in any event, not even to prove or disprove the theory. Dragon was not a form Morrigan herself had ever learned, and their encounters had been limited to one real high dragon and Flemeth herself, which was hardly a decently sized sample of the breed for them to be attempting to make judgements from.

Zevran had spoken briefly with Tria, which resulted in the elf going to sleep in Wynne and Mara's room tonight. She'd flashed an amused smiled at the two of them, and briefly covered her eyes, winning a grin from the elf and a smirk from Owen before the two went to their room. Privacy at last, Owen thought as he closed the door behind him. Privacy without, one hoped, any further interruptions.

Zevran had stopped just inside the room, and turned to look up at him, face impassive, hands hanging loose at his side. His body betrayed him, however, a faint but definite bulge visibly tenting the front of his leggings already. Owen said nothing, simply lifted his hands and slowly, deliberately stripped out Zevran's braids, leaving the long forelocks hanging loose. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, and hid his emotion in taking one lock of hair in between his first two fingers, letting the rippled hair slide smoothly between then as his lifted the hair to his mouth, pressing a brief kiss to it before releasing it again. Zevran shivered, just slightly, and Owen smiled, then leaned down to kiss the elf on the lips, a very soft and gentle kiss.

He thought, briefly, of their activities of the night before, and shivered himself. He had been enjoying being a little rough with the elf – they _both_ had been enjoying that, very much so – but he had no wish to invoke memories of what had come afterwards, the sudden violence, the fear, even though it had in the end turned out well.

Gentleness, then. Zevran deserved some reward for last night. "Help me undress," Owen said softly. "And then start a fire."

Zevran nodded, silent agreement, and followed him over to the bed, helping him to remove and put aside his clothing. Not that he needed the help, but he enjoyed being served by Zevran, and Zevran always seemed to enjoy it as well; because it was his choice to serve, not something he _had_ to do. Another game they played, just as Zevran's surrender in bed was a game, no true mastery of him. Mastery because it was allowed, not because it was taken, submission that was voluntary, not forced.

He waved Zevran off once he was nude. The room was a little chilly and damp from the day of rain, but the coolness of the air was pleasant with the prospect of a fire and certain warming activities ahead, so he did not bother putting on a robe or nightshirt. While Zevran went to lay and start a fire, he considered what things he'd like to do that evening, then smiled, and picked out only two items from his collection before going over and taking a seat on the bench near the fire.

"Come here," he said, voice a little husky with desire, and pointed to a spot on the floor in front of him. Zevran walked over, and stood quietly, facing him. He smiled, and then undressed the elf, not allowing him to help, but simply and deliberately doing it himself, moving at a slow but steady pace as he undid each button, lace, or buckle that he needed to, carefully slipping off and setting aside each article of clothing in turn, until the elf stood naked before him.

He paused then, just running an appreciative eye over Zevran, admiring anew the elf's slender and muscular build, the faint scars and bold tattoos that marked his golden skin, the fall of his paler gold hair. He reached out and ran the back of one finger lightly up the underside of Zevran's slowly rising cock, smiling slightly as it twitched more erect, the elf tensing momentarily, toes curling hard against the floor. Owen drew him close then, hands sliding to rest with one pressing lightly between Zevran's shoulder blades, one outspread on buttocks, Owen only having to tilt his head a little to kiss the elf, one benefit of their difference in heights. Zevran sighed faintly, mouth opening under his, but he ignored that passive invitation, instead gently pushing the elf a half-pace away from him again once the kiss ended.

He smiled warmly at Zevran, then began to touch him. The elf liked being touched, he knew, and he indulged that now, running his hands all over every part of the assassin that he could easily reach, nudging him to turn away, to turn back. The lean hard muscles of his thighs, the rounded and only slightly less hard curves of his ass, the complex interweave of muscles all up and down his back and sides, the flat belly and the planes of his chest. Zevran began to tremble after a while, breath deepening and skin flushing in arousal, cock now quite erect, and glistening with moisture. Owen ignored that for now; did not touch those most sensitive parts of him again just yet, instead taking time to toy with his nipples, to caress his shoulders, to gently stroke the edges of his long pointed ears, to run his hands down each of Zevran's arms, pausing to massage briefly at his hands, then lifting one to lick and suck at his fingers.

Zevran's eyes were closed now, head tilted somewhat backwards, breath coming in short gasps, a continuous trembling shaking him as he fought to stay still.

"Turn around and bend over," Owen instructed, picking up the vial of oil he'd brought over and uncorking it. Zevran did as told, moving with deliberate grace, bending down and grasping his ankles, body relaxed, his head and hair hanging loose. Owen forced himself to move with equal deliberation, as he had when taking off the elf's clothes; carefully slicking oil on his hands and fingers, then beginning to stroke Zevran where he wanted the oil to be; in the cleft of his buttocks, and smoothed down his inner thighs. He continued to avoid touching the assassin's penis, merely rubbing gently at the sensitive area just back of his balls before slowly inserting one finger inside of him. The action drew a faint gasp from the elf.

"It's all right if you come," he said quietly, and worked his finger slowly in and out. He picked up the still-open vial with the other hand, and then tugged gently downwards, drizzling a little oil onto his finger so that it ran down and into the elf. A second finger, after that, and a slow but firm massage both inside and out. The elf's legs were shaking now, and he had to quickly release his ankles and brace his fingertips against the floor to prevent himself from falling forward. Owen made a pleased sound at that, and massaged a little harder.

A gasp and a faint cry burst from the elf as he came, semen spattering down his thighs, his belly and chest. He might have fallen then, but Owen hastily removed his fingers and caught him, drawing the shaking elf into his lap, ignoring the mess smeared on his front. He cradled Zevran in his lap for a few minutes, until the elf's trembling stopped, his breathing returning to normal, then kissed him, slowly and thoroughly. Zevran sighed, and leaned his head against Owen's shoulder, content just to remain there for now.

Owen unwrapped one arm enough to pick up a cloth – Zevran's discarded smalls – and wipe the elf clean, then the single toy he'd selected for them tonight; one of his plugs, the smallest one, that would stimulate indirectly, not quite pressing against the right spot inside. He quickly oiled it, then nudged Zevran's legs apart for long enough to insert it. Zevran wiggled a little once it was in, then settled again, nuzzling a little against the side of Owen's neck, waiting and trusting.

The mage smiled, then slipped his arm under Zevran's legs and stood, carrying the elf over to the bed. "Stand for a moment," he said, and lowered him to the floor, then quickly arranged the bed the way he wanted it, before settling himself down on it, his upper body supported by a slanted pile of pillows to hold him partially upright. "Here," he said, patting his lap, and smiled at the eagerness with which the elf, reviving already, scrambled up onto the bed and joined him. He took a couple of minutes arranging the both of them to his satisfaction, Zevran lying face-up on top of him, the elf's thighs closed around Owen's own erection, head resting arched back on Owen's left shoulder to expose the curve of his throat.

And then Owen began handling him again; long soothing stroking touches from chin down to mid-thigh, playful tweaks to nipples, rubbing the edges and ends of his ears between thumb and fingers. Zevran hissed in pleasure at that, and he smiled, doing it a second time before letting his hands drift downwards again. He took his time, ignoring his own arousal in favour of restoring the elf's erection, and only then did he finally begin a slow, rolling thrust of his hips, his cock sliding back and forth between Zevran's oil-slick thighs. Zevran sighed in pleasure, not tense and trembling now as he'd been earlier, but relaxed, just lying there limply – well, except in certain key areas – and enjoying what Owen was doing to him.

Owen smiled, and ran his hands down Zevran's front in another long petting stroke again, letting the tips of his fingers just barely graze against the elf's erection in passing. Another hiss, for that, and a sudden brief tensing as the elf twitched uncontrollably. Owen chuckled, and rocked his hips a little harder. His movements would be nudging repeatedly against the base of the plug he'd used on the elf, but small as it was, and shaped as it was, its tip would be rubbing in the wrong place inside; stimulating near the right spot, but not _at _it. Frustrating, another teasing thing added to everything else he was doing to titillate the elf.

It wasn't long before the stimulation of everything began to become too much for the elf; his earlier relaxation faded, its place taken by a shuddering tenseness, his breathing becoming an uneven gasping as he writhed in response to Owen's touches, little whimpers escaping him now whenever Owen did something especially pleasing. Owen's own breathing was ragged, his hips snapping forward against Zevran with every upward thrust.

He let his hands still for a long moment, holding tight onto Zevran's shoulders, not quite hard enough to leave bruises but close, as he fought to keep his own control. Finally he slid his hands down to cup palms over the elf's nipples, and left the first faint tingle of electricity spark between their skins. Zevran gave a strangled cry, arching up into that touch, head grinding backwards against Owen's own shoulder.

Owen slid his hands slowly lower, keeping up the spell, biting his lip at Zevran's hoarse cries and writhing movements, the elf unable to keep still beneath the little teasing, biting sparks of the spell. Owen's hands slid lower, and lower yet, until they rested firmly against Zevran's lower stomach just shy of his erection, the elf helplessly straining up against them, whimpering with anticipation. Finally he sighed, and slowly moved his hands lower yet – and stopped the spell just before his fingers wrapped around the elf's rigid erection.

Zevran sobbed and struggled for a moment, overcome with need. Owen shushed him comfortingly, nuzzled against the side of his head and stilled, waiting a moment longer until the assassin began to regain control of himself. He carefully moved one hand a little further down to cup the elf's balls, his long fingertips tucking into the space between Zevran's legs, tips fitting into the slight gap between the elf's over-sensitized skin and Owen's own aching cock, his other hand lightly stroking up and down the elf's length, before moving to cup over the tip; then and only then did he finally resume the faint shocking spell.

Zevran cried out, thrusting hard into Owen's hand as he came. Owen gasped and moaned as well, his own spell teasing at his tip. He thrust hard a last few times, and came, his own spend spattering out across the elf's thighs. For a moment they both lay there, panting heavily, then Zevran groaned and turned over, ignoring the oil and semen smearing across his skin, and wrapped his arms tightly around Owen's shoulders, burying his face against the mage's neck, legs sliding down to either side to straddle the mage's waist. Owen sighed and wrapped his own arms around the elf, hugging him tightly, rubbing his hands up and down his quaking back. He said nothing, until Zevran calmed again, then cupped hands to either side of his head, lifting his face enough to kiss him once, warmly, before forcing sternness into his voice and ordering the elf to clean them up. Zevran's answering smile at his seemingly harsh tone brought a lump to his throat, and he lay there quietly, watching in contentment as the elf busied himself with putting them both back to rights.

They slept well that night, Owen curled tightly around the smaller elf.


	12. Useful Skills

"We'll be leaving in two days," Arren said, and looked around the table. "Most of the army will be leaving for Redcliffe over the next two weeks, and I've received messages from the dwarves and the Dalish; they should be on the march to Redcliffe already. The mages will be setting out from their tower soon as well; as close as they are to Redcliffe, they still have a while before they need to set out in order to reach there on the agreed-upon date."

He looked around again, seeing only attentive listening faces, and then continued. "We're making a side-trip up into Amaranthine before heading south ourselves. We'll be meeting up with a merchant who claims to know the way to an old Grey Warden keep in the coastal mountains, somewhere north of the Knotwood Hills. I'm hoping we might find some records there, records that tell us how to slay an archdemon," he said, voice a touch grim. He and Alistair knew only that Grey Wardens were necessary to successfully slay one – not why they were necessary, or if there was some special trick to it. With the disaster at Ostagar having wiped out all of the Grey Wardens in the country but themselves, and no wardens having arrived from abroad – or been allowed to cross the border, if they _had_ tried entry – he and Alistair were at a loss as far as any special knowledge the wardens might have had went.

"We'll need to travel quickly, if we're to find this keep, search it, and still make it to Redcliffe on time," he continued.

"Then why wait two days?" Owen spoke up. "Why not leave tomorrow?"

Arren smiled briefly. "I wish we could. But I have a final meeting at the palace tomorrow morning, and judging by past experience, it may well run into late afternoon before I can escape."

"And if you do get out earlier?" Zevran asked. "Could we not leave then?"

Arren shrugged. "I suppose we could. If everyone was packed, ready and waiting. I just thought it made more sense to wait for the next day."

Glances were exchanged around the table.

"While I have no objection to an extra night in a real bed, I for one am tired of sitting around in Denerim with little of any real use to do," Wynne spoke up. "I can be ready, just in case we can leave early after all." Others of them then spoke up, all agreeing that they were willing to leave earlier if it proved possible to do so.

Arren laughed. "All right then, since you're all so eager for the road; _if_ I can get back here early enough tomorrow, we'll set out and try to make a few miles before dark. And if not, at least we'll be packed and ready for an early start the next day."

He frowned. "We're going to be a large party, and not exactly inconspicuous, given the unique makeup of our group," he pointed out. "We'll be travelling through territory where we may run into people with reason to dislike us – Amaranthine was Howe's arling, after all – on top any bounty hunters and mercenaries who haven't heard that Loghain and Howe are no longer around to pay off on Grey Warden heads. We're going to need to be wary while travelling, and keep a strong watch ready at night."

"I might point out that I have no need to sleep," Shale said.

"Yes, but I'd still like to have others awake and ready to respond if someone tries to attack us; given the size of our party, anyone who does so is likely to make the attempt in force," Arren pointed out. "Accordingly I'll be assigning people into three groups, and we'll have three watches over the course of each night. Myself, Morrigan, Mica and Leian are one group; the second is Wynne, Mara, Tria and Sten, and the third is Owen, Zevran, Alistair and Jowan. And Shale is of course in all three groups," he added, grinning at the golem, who nodded its head in acceptance. "We'll switch around a little as to who is covering which watch, so it isn't always the same people having to get up in the middle of the night. Now, does anyone have any questions or suggestions?"

No one did, so Arren drew the meeting to a close, after which everyone scattered to their rooms to make a start on packing.

* * *

Jowan held up a shirt. "I swear this shirt is more patches than it is original material. When was the last time you bought yourself some new clothing?"

"Um. Never?" Alistair said, flushing in embarrassment.

"What? You mean you can't remember the last time?" Jowan asked, turning to frown at the templar.

"No. Really never. My clothing has always been supplied for me," Alistair explained. "Mostly by Arl Eamon, when I was a child, and for a while after I was first sent off to the chantry. Then by the chantry itself after I was signed over for templar training, and after I joined the wardens here in Denerim I was supplied with a complete kit of everything I'd need – the armour and clothing and so on. Though that was a while ago now."

"And you're never bought yourself anything new ever? I can believe it, looking at the state of these socks," Jowan said, frowning as he sorted through more of Alistair's clothing, taking note how few items were in decent condition. "And these leggings. Don't tell me you actually wear these in public?"

"Err... yes? I wear armour most of the time anyway, does it really matter?"

Jowan rolled his eyes. "All right. I can see what we're going to do with the remainder of the afternoon; we need to head to the market and pick up some new clothing for you. I just hope we can find pre-made things that are big enough, we don't have enough time to have anything made up from scratch. Though I suppose if we have to, we can always pick up some fabric and ask Mara to sew you something."

"But I don't _need_ new clothing, this all still has some wear left in it..."

"Yes, you do," Jowan said firmly. "Come on, let's go spend some of your money."

"I have money?" Alistair asked with false innocence, earning a mild glare from the mage. "Right. Coin purse. One moment while I find it..."

It was at least a nice day for a visit to the market, sunny but not overly warm. They spent a while wandering from stall to stall before finally settling down to looking specifically for clothing, and soon found a store to suit their needs in one of the side-lanes off of the main market; a store run by a tailor who understood that working men didn't always have much time for things like fittings and kept a stock on hand of serviceable clothing ready-made; things he and his apprentices made when they didn't have better-paying work to occupy their time. Most of it was of cheap but sturdy fabrics and of inexpensive construction, but he also had some nicer items made up for men with a little more money in their pockets.

Jowan picked over the shirts while Alistair ducked into the back to try on some leggings, finding a few that he thought would fit the man well, mostly in plain white or off-white fabric. He took the stack of them into the back, and came to a sudden stop. Alistair looked up from adjusting the lacing of the leggings he was currently trying on – a pair in a heavy dark blue wool – and smiled slightly when he saw the way Jowan was looking at him, admiring him standing there half-undressed.

Jowan sighed, and walked over. "If only we weren't in such a public place," he said softly as he set down the shirts and picked up the first one, holding it up to check the width of its shoulders against Alistair's.

Alistair raised an eyebrow, flushing slightly. "Oh? Having naughty thoughts about me again?"

"Always," Jowan said, setting the first shirt aside and checking the next one. "Here, try this on, it should be large enough."

Alistair grinned and took it from his hand, leaning down enough to give the mage a quick kiss before pulling the shirt on. He raised and lowered his arms and rolled his shoulders, checking that the shirt didn't bind anywhere. "This is a good size," he said approvingly. "Are there more?"

"I think so," Jowan said, and sorted through the pile, handing him a few more to try on, and then standing by watching appreciatively as Alistair did so.

"I think we should pick up some new things for you as well," Alistair said as he changed out of the blue leggings and into a pair made of dark brown wool.

"Why? Unlike you, my clothing is not mostly made up of candidates for the rag bag."

"Yeah, but its no fair that I'm not getting to watch you change in and out of clothes too."

Jowan laughed. "All right. Pick out something for me, then," he said, and gathered up the things they'd selected for Alistair into one pile and the rejected items into a second, before returning to the front of the shop. "This to start," he told the tailor. "There'll be some more items."

Alistair was already sorting through some of the merchandise on display; not the plain shirts, but some of the fancier things. "I'd like to see you in this," he said, holding up a jacket. It was made of heavier material, in a grey-blue colour with a little fancy work on the yoke and collar, mostly in blue and black thread but with some silver thread and clear glass beads couched into the pattern to give it a little glitter.

"Wanting me in grey Warden colours, are you?" Jowan asked, taking it from his hand and looking it over.

Alistair shrugged. "Not so much that as... well, I just think it'd look good on you. Bring out the colour of your eyes."

Jowan laughed. "My eyes are grey; there's no colour to bring out."

"That's where you're wrong," Alistair said. "It means your eyes are every colour, like storm clouds."

Jowan raised an eyebrow at him. "Like storm clouds?"

"Yeah. Depending on the light and your mood, they look more grey-green or grey-blue, and sometimes a very pure light grey, and sometimes darker shades," Alistair explained, his voice thickening slightly as he spoke.

Jowan gave Alistair a look. "Really. What colour are they now?"

"Dark. Very dark," Alistair said quietly. They stood still a moment, just looking at each other. "Try the jacket on," Alistair said softly.

Jowan snorted, but did so. It was a good fit for him; not too large or loose, the sleeves maybe a touch long, but better that than too short. "How do I look?" he asked, looking up at Alistair.

"Good," Alistair replied, his voice full of approval. "Your hair is stuck down inside the collar though," he pointed out, and slid his hand along the back of Jowan's neck to lift it free. "It's getting long," he said, tugging on a lock of it.

Jowan smiled. "Should I cut it? Or let it keep growing? I could put it back in a ponytail maybe." He watched in fascination as Alistair chewed on his bottom lip while he thought that over, wishing he could nibble on it as well.

"You wouldn't want it as long as Owen's hair, would you?" Alistair asked a touch worriedly. "I kind of like how... uh, shaggy it's getting, but I think really long hair is probably more trouble than it's worth."

Jowan grinned. "It is. You wouldn't believe how much work it was looking after Mara's hair, before she cut it all off. But she had very long hair. But no, I wouldn't want it as long as Owen's hair. But do you like it this long? Or maybe I should just crop it short, like you do to yours."

"No, don't do that," Alistair said decisively. "I like yours this long. Maybe a little longer, but not too much."

Jowan smiled. "Then I'll let it grow a little longer. And you can buy me this jacket. But we should get you a nice one as well," he pointed out, and turned back to look over the selection of jackets. "This one maybe?" he said, lifting up one of a dark red fabric with white and gold embroidery.

"No," Alistair said, voice flat with distaste, enough so that Jowan gave him a questioningly look. "Royal colours," he said softly in explanation, making a face.

"Oh," Jowan said, and put it back. "This?" he asked, holding up one in a very dark green, embroidered in blue and black like Jowan's but with touches of gold instead of silver.

"Yes," Alistair said, smiling in pleasure, and tried it on. It was a little loose around the waist, but a good fit in the shoulders and length of arm. "This one," Alistair agreed. "Have we spent enough of my money yet?"

"No. You also need some new smalls and stockings," Jowan said.

The tailor had smalls available, but not stockings.

"Don't do knit goods," he told them. "There's a stall in Pinchpenny Lane other side of the market that might have some, though she mostly does bigger work; sweaters and the like. And you might try the laundress, she does knitting when she's not being kept busy with washing or those kids of hers. She's right off the main market, by Wade's shop – Goldanna, her name is."

"Goldanna?" Alistair said, an odd note in his voice. "I knew of a Goldanna – is she from Redcliffe?"

The tailor shrugged. "No idea. You'd have to ask her."

Jowan waited until they'd paid for their goods and left the shop before questioning Alistair. "What was that about? Who's Goldanna?"

"My sister," Alistair explained, looking pale. "Well, half-sister. I told you about how Arl Eamon raised me... that I was the son of a servant there. I wasn't her only child. There was a daughter as well, an older one. I never really knew her; she left, when mother died. All I know is her name – Goldanna. And I once heard someone mention that she'd become a laundress, like her mother was."

"So you think this Goldanna might be the same woman?"

"Yes."

Jowan looked searchingly at him, and considered how he himself might feel, if he knew he had a sibling and discovered they might be near at hand. "Do you want to go find out?"

"Can we?" Alistair asked hopefully. "Well, of course we can. You'll come with me? Make sure I don't make too big a fool of myself?"

Jowan smiled. "Yes, of course I'll come with you. And you're _not_ going to make a fool of yourself."

"That's what you think," Alistair said, sounding almost perversely proud. "I excel at making a fool of myself."

Jowan laughed. "Well you're not going to this time. Come on, let's go find this laundress."

The house was easy to find, a somewhat ramshackle but sizable dwelling next door to Wade's smithy, the smell of hot soapy water noticeable even from the street. They knocked on the door, then went indoors as a muffled shout told them to come in.

A harried looking red-haired woman came out of the back as they entered the front room, dressed in a worn and water-stained dress. "Eh? You have linens to wash? I charge three bits on the bundle, you won't find better. And don't trust what that Natalia woman tells you either, she's foreign and she'll rob you blind."

Alistair bit his lip. "I'm... not here to have any wash done. My name's Alistair. I'm... well, this may sound sort of strange, but are you Goldanna from Redcliffe? If so, I suppose I'm your brother."

The woman stared at Alistair like he was mad. "My what? I am Goldanna, and I've been to Redcliffe, yes... Why do you want to know? What kind of tomfoolery are you two up to?" She gave the pair of them a very suspicious look.

Jowan hurriedly intervened, seeing how flustered Alistair was looking. "Look, this is Alistair, he's from Redcliffe, and he was told his mother was a laundress there, whose older daughter was named Goldanna..."

The woman's mouth opened in an 'O 'of surprise. "You! _I knew it! _They told me you was dead! They told me the babe was dead along with mother, but I knew they was lying!"

Now it was Alistair's turn to look shocked. "They told you I was dead? Who? Who told you that?"

"Them's at the castle! I told them the babe was the king's, and they said he was dead. Gave me a coin to shut my mouth and sent me on my way! I knew it!"

"I'm sorry, I... didn't know that. The babe didn't die. I'm him; I'm... your brother," Alistair said, voice softening and a smile lighting his face.

A smile not answered by his sister's expression; it was clearly anger that she was feeling now. "For all the good it does me! You killed Mother, you did, and I've had to scrape by all this time. That coin didn't last long, and when I went back they ran me off!"

Alistair paled. "I... I'm sorry, I didn't know..." he stammered out.

Goldanna continued speaking, not even seeming to have heard his words, her eyes filling with tears now. "I don't know you, boy. Your royal father forced himself on my mother and took her away from me, and what do I got to show for it? _Nothing_. They tricked me good! I should have told everyone! I got five mouths to feed, and unless you can help with that, I got less than no use for you!" She turned her back, burying her face in her hands.

Alistair was looking appalled; clearly he'd never imagined this sort of reaction as how his news might be received. It made Jowan's heart ache to see him so upset.

"I... I'm sorry, I... I don't know what to say," Alistair said dully. "I should just go."

"Yes, you should!" Goldanna said bitterly.

"Wait," Jowan said. "Goldanna... I'm sorry that our coming here upset you. Alistair was just hoping to find his family; he wanted to meet you, to know what his mother was like, what _you_ were like..."

"Yeah, well, he's seen now, hasn't he? And now he can go back to his noble friends and his noble life and laugh about it, can't he?"

"What? No, I would never do that," Alistair said, sounding appalled. "Anyway, I don't have... I never... Maker, what sort of life do you think I have?"

"Well, I wouldn't know, would I?" Goldanna asked bitterly. "You been too busy being the king's bastard and living all high and mighty to ever care about me, or your nieces and nephews..."

"That's not true!" Alistair exclaimed. "All I've ever wanted since I found out I had a sister was to meet you. But I never knew where you were; I'd still be wondering, except a tailor mentioned a laundress named Goldanna..."

"Oh, a _tailor_," she said, turning around and putting her hands on her hips. "How very refined. Getting a fine new coat made for the ball?" she asked sourly.

"No," Alistair said, flushing with anger himself now. "Picking out a few shirts to replace my old ones, which are more patches than anything else," he said, tearing open the bundle of clothing in his arms and letting the shirts and leggings and jackets spill to the floor.

Goldanna stared at the clothing, the anger fading from her face. "I know that work. You bought those from Nimble Jack, around the corner. Dockers wear that stuff. Dockers and carry-men and warehouse boys. Why would you want to wear cheap stuff like that when you're a prince?"

"Alistair is no prince," Jowan said softly. "He's the king's bastard, yes, but he was raised as a stable-boy growing up, then given over to the chantry. He'd have ended up a templar, except he was conscripted into the Grey Warden's instead. I don't know what life you think he's had... but I don't think his has been all that much better than yours."

Goldanna stood there silently, studying Alistair's face, then suddenly stepped forward and crouched down, gathering up the fallen clothing. "They'll get all dusty, left on the floor like that," she said sharply. "Haven't had time to sweep since this time last week."

Alistair stared at her for a moment, then knelt down and silently joined her in gathering everything up. When they rose, she handed her pile to him, and stood there studying his face again. "You take after him, not her," she said after a minute, then looked away. "Come into the back," she said quietly. "I'll make tea and we can talk for a little while. Though it'll have to be in the laundry, I have a kettle of clothes I can't leave unattended for long."

"Do they need a stir? I can stir them while you make the tea," Alistair said, sounding oddly hopeful.

Goldanna gave him a suspicious look. "You know how to do laundry?"

"Yes. We all had to help with chores in the chantry. Laundry, scullion duties, cleaning..."

"All right," she said. "You go stir the copper then; I left the paddle beside it," she said, then turned and looked over Jowan. "What about you? You a chantry brat too? Going to offer to sweep my floor for me?"

"Not quite a chantry boy, no," Jowan said. After all, as a tower-raised mage he had technically been raised by the chantry, just... not like she or Alistair meant by the term. "But I do know how to use a broom."

Goldanna snorted. "Never mind the floor, you go wait in the laundry with him. Rather not have the two of you wandering around the house," she said, and led them into the back of the building.

Jowan found himself sitting on a bench along one wall of the large stone-floored laundry room, watching while Alistair stirred a big steaming copper full of soapy water and laundry with a heavy paddle. It looked like hard work; hard enough that he was surprised that a woman as small as Goldanna could manage it by herself.

It wasn't long before she returned, carrying a tea pot in one hand and with several mismatched clay mugs hanging by their handles from the fingers of the other. "There's no sweetening for it, you'll have to take it black," she warned them, and stopped to watch Alistair for a moment. "You do look like you know what you're doing," she said, sounding surprised.

Alistair glanced up, and smiled at her, a warm and friendly smile. "I wasn't lying about having to do this in the chantry, if that's what you're wondering."

She sniffed and turned away, but not before smiling briefly back at him. Jowan took the mugs from her hand and lined them up on the bench so she could pour for the three of them. Alistair put aside the paddle and joined them, all three sitting on the bench, Goldanna at one end and Jowan at the other, with Alistair in between.

Brother and sister studied each other in silence for a while. "They told you I was dead?" Alistair asked after a while.

"Yeah, you and mother both. They let me see her, already all wrapped up for the fire, with a smaller bundle that they said was you," Goldanna said, and frowned. "Wasn't nice of them to lie to me like that. All these years, I thought you was dead. My own brother!" She paused, an odd look on her face. "I used to wish sometimes that you weren't dead. That you'd come find me and make things better, somehow. My brother, the prince... but when I needed it most, you'd have been too young anyway. Just a kid still, and me with brats of my own by then."

"I'm here now," Alistair said, hands tightening around his mug. "Is there anything I can do to help now? You said... you mentioned kids? Nieces and nephews?"

"Yeah, five of them. Two girls and three boys. Would have been more but," she shrugged. "That's all that lived. You know how kids is, blink and they take sick and die. When I had my first, the woman, she told me not to love 'em until they was at least two or three years old. Die too easy before that. I didn't want to believe her. And how do you not love 'em when they're yours? But I've been lucky, I suppose, out of seven births I've got five good children. Better than mother had," she said, and studied Alistair's face again.

"What was she like? Our mother? None of the servants at Redcliffe could ever tell me."

"Well, of course they couldn't, she was a Denerim woman."

"What?" Alistair asked, frowning. "But I was always told she died in Redcliffe..."

"Oh, sure, she died there... but she was a servant here at the Denerim estate. Arl Eamon sent her off to Redcliffe after she turned up pregnant. Knew it was King Maric who'd been diddling with her and didn't want the embarrassment of a royal bastard in his townhouse, I suppose, especially since his sister had been Queen. So he packed the pair of us off to Redcliffe, where you could be born more privately. And then mother died, and I was told you had too, and they turned me out with nothing but a silver coin. No one in the village had any use for me, not any way that I was willing to be used anyway, so I want back to the castle. They wouldn't even let me in to talk to the Arl, just told me to be off or they'd run me off. So I walked back to Denerim."

"That can't have been easy," said Alistair, frowning and looking upset. "That's a long trip; how'd you survive? And what did you do once you got here?"

Goldanna shrugged, then rose and went over to give the copper another stir, handling the paddle with surprising ease for her small size, the muscles in her thin arms standing out clearly as she moved it about. "Luck. Luck and nimble fingers; I stole apples from trees and corn from fields and eggs from nests as I went, and just hoped no one would catch me at it. Which they didn't. And then I lived on the streets for a while, until I managed to get a job running messages, and then working as a scrub woman, and then later when I was bigger I got me a husband, and after he ran off, I got me another one. He died a few years ago, of the wasting, though at least he left me this house, which was better than what the first one left me with, which was a big belly and a black eye and no money to my name. So now I have the house and my work and my kids, and I scrape by as best I can."

"I'm sorry," Alistair said. "I wish I'd known... I wish I'd been able to help."

"Yeah, well, if wishes were coins I'd be a rich woman. Tell me about yourself; your friend said you was a stable-boy?" she asked curiously, pouring them out a second round of tea and resuming her seat.

So Alistair did; about his childhood at Redcliffe, growing up in the stables, being sent off to the chantry at ten and eventually signed over to it entirely and put into templar training. About becoming a Grey Warden. Jowan sat quietly listening, having heard much of it before, and smiling at the pride and joy on Alistair's face as he spoke of how happy becoming a Grey Warden had made him. Goldanna had relaxed as they talked, and had a smile on her face when Alistair finally wound down.

"My brother, a Grey Warden. I think I like that more than when I thought you was a prince. A warden at least does something useful. _And_ you know how to work," she added approvingly, watching as Alistair took another turn at stirring the copper. She rose and walked over, taking the paddle from his hand. "You should go and I should get back to work," she said regretfully. "Supper won't make itself and the floor still needs sweeping."

Alistair nodded, surrendering the paddle to her. "Can I come back some time?" he asked hopefully. "We're leaving town tomorrow, but maybe later..."

She smiled. "I'd like that. And maybe the kids should get to meet their uncle. Yes, you can come back."

Alistair smiled warmly at her, then suddenly fumbled at his belt. "Oh. Here, take this... I know it can't make up for everything, but... you need it more than I do," he said, and pressed his coin purse into her hands.

Goldanna stared at it, then looked up at him. "I shouldn't take this. I mean, I could _use_ it, but..."

"Please, take it. Buy my nieces and nephews a treat or something," he said, and smiled warmly at her. "I've got enough to get by on. More than enough."

"Well... all right then," she said, and then stretched up on her toes to kiss his cheek. "Thank you... brother. Alistair."

Alistair smiled sunnily at her, and gave her a rather awkward but obviously heartfelt hug, which Jowan could see both surprised and pleased his sister. Her face softened, and she blinked furiously. "Go on, get out of here," she scolded him. "I have work to do."

Alistair nodded, and he and Jowan left. The smile on Alistair's face as he paused outside in the street made Jowan happy that he'd agreed to come here with him. "That... didn't quite go how I expected," Alistair said. "She's nothing like I ever imagined. But I'm glad I came," he said, and his face lit up again. "I have a sister. I have nieces and nephews. I have a _family_."

Jowan smiled, and gripped his arm. "I'm glad for you. But we still need to do something about your stockings before the market shuts down for the evening," he reminded Alistair.

"Oh, right. Oh... but I gave away all my money," he pointed out, frowning.

Jowan smiled. "I have some. I'll buy your socks, assuming we can find any. If not maybe we can find some yarn and needles."

"And get Wynne to knit me some?"

"No. And get me to knit you some."

"You know how to knit?" Alistair asked, surprised, as he trailed after Jowan toward the stall the tailor had told them about.

"Yes. Remind me to teach you how some time. It's a useful skill to have."

* * *

_Just a note that Riordan has yet to show up in this AU, which is why Arren and Alistair still don't know any of the things he would have told them if he'd been rescued from Howe's dungeon._


	13. Last Night

Jowan and Alistair ate their dinner standing at a stall in the marketplace, a pottage of barley and onions and shreds of meat – mutton, by the taste of it – and then walked back through the darkening evening to the townhouse. They could hear laughter and loud conversation coming from the kitchen, and joined their companions for long enough to enjoy a tankard of ale, but neither of them were of a mood to linger downstairs, and they soon retreated to their own room.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, Jowan pushed the larger man back against it, and drew him down into a heated kiss. Alistair laughed a little breathlessly, then gave himself in to the kiss, closing his eyes and concentrating on the feel of it; Jowan's lips warm against his, teeth worrying gently at his lower lip, and then, once Alistair opened up, a warm slick tongue exploring the depths of his mouth. He sighed in pleasure as it ended, and smiled at Jowan, his arms closing around the slighter man, their bundle of clothing dropping forgotten to the floor. "Liked seeing me half-dressed that much, did you?" he asked.

Jowan smiled, and craned up to kiss the underside of his chin, grimacing slightly at the bristly feeling of it. "Yes," he agreed.

"Mmm," Alistair sighed, then grinned. "As I recall I was supposed to get to see the same, and I didn't."

"You're the one that picked out a jacket for me instead of a shirt or leggings. But I'm sure we can remedy the situation," Jowan said, and backed away, tugging on Alistair's hand and drawing him over to the bed. "Sit," he commanded.

Alistair lifted his eyebrows a little, then smiled and sat, and watched as Jowan stepped back a couple of paces, kicking off his boots and the lifting each foot to remove his stockings. He paused with his hands at his waist, and gave Alistair a smouldering look. "Shirt or leggings first?"

"Shirt," Alistair said, voice a touch husky, and licked at his lips then chewed a little on the lower one as he watched.

Jowan took his time, first pulling out the tails of his shirt to hang over his leggings, then undoing the laces at the neck, tugging them loose with careful, deliberate movements, his eyes meeting Alistair's as he worked. The row of little carved bone buttons at the tight cuffs next, and then he crossed his arms, fingers hooking into opposite sides of the lower hem, and drew the shirt up and off over his head, shaking his mussed black hair back out of his eyes as he tossed it aside. Alistair's breath caught for a moment, watching him, a sound escaping him. Jowan paused, and smiled warmly at him, then seemed to divine his wants and moved closer again, coming to a stop between Alistair's knees.

Alistair set one hand against Jowan's chest, turned slightly so the fingers lay along the direction of his ribs, remembering how gaunt the mage had been when he'd first joined them. Gaunt, and pale, and stinking of the dungeon cells beneath Redcliffe Castle. And so frightened and alone. A different man now, with lean muscle and darkly tanned skin from all the time spent out of doors, and so confident... Alistair smiled, and reached up his other hand to tangle in Jowan's hair, pulling him down for a kiss, letting his other hand slide downwards across the smooth warm planes of Jowan's belly, and further down, to the bulge in his leggings, palming gently over it as he explored Jowan's mouth the same way the mage had explored his earlier.

"Let me," said Alistair hoarsely when the lengthy kiss ended, and dropped his eyes to watch his fingers as he unlaced Jowan's leggings and then drew them down, the mage resting a hand on Alistair's shoulder to balance himself as he lifted first one foot and then the other so that Alistair could remove them, leaving him dressed in only his smalls, the fabric tented and dampening at the front. Alistair set his hands on Jowan's hips, pushing him back just a little, and then he leaned down and mouthed at the fabric, drawing a hiss and then a low moan from the mage as Alistair sucked in the taste and smell of Jowan's arousal.

"My turn," Jowan said, voice as husky as Alistair's own, and set to work on unfastening Alistair's shirt, tugging it off of him and then pressing on Alistair's shoulders to get him to lie back, while the mage drew off his leggings and stockings and smalls, his own smalls disappearing somewhere in the process, though just when Alistair wasn't sure, as caught up as he was in trying to steal touches and kisses while Jowan undressed him.

He was feeling very pleased with himself as he lay naked on the bed, Jowan's eyes watching him so hungrily, and stretched like a cat, rocking his hips a little from side to side to draw attention to his half-hardened cock.

"You're doing that on purpose," Jowan said, sounding amused, and reached out to grasp him. Jowan only give a couple of strokes before scrambling back off the bed. "Oil," the mage said in explanation, and was back with it quickly, before Alistair could feel too disappointed over his sudden abandonment. "Stay still," he ordered when Alistair started to sit up and reach for it.

Alistair grinned, but lay back, sighing in pleasure as Jowan's hands closed around him again, slick with oil now. "That's nice," he said breathlessly as Jowan spread it over him, then yelped when the mage reached up and tweaked one of his nipples. "Hey!" he exclaimed, moving his hands to shield them, then laughed at the mischievous look Jowan gave him.

"Admit it, you like it when I do that," Jowan said.

"A little. Maybe. All right, a lot," Alistair agreed, and hissed and arched as the mage took that for invitation and tweaked the other one as well, then swarmed up on top of him and bent down to spend some time licking and nipping and nuzzling at him. Alistair was feeling pleasantly excited from it all by the time Jowan finally shifted back a little, taking Alistair's erection in hand to guide him before sinking slowly down onto him, panting and shuddering until he was seated with Alistair deep inside him. Warm oil-coated fingers laced with Alistair's own, pinning his hands down to either side of his head as Jowan leaned down over him, Alistair craning upwards to kiss him. He enjoyed the feel on Jowan on him and around him, and the sight of him as the mage straightened up a little and began to ride him. He lay back again, sighing in contentment as he began to roll his own hips, grinning at the appreciative sounds the movement drew from Jowan.

He liked it when Jowan got pushy like this. It was nice, seeing how decisive the mage could be, when he'd once been so withdrawn and hesitant. And while he enjoyed sometimes being the one to chose what the pair of them would do together, he usually liked it best when Jowan decided, especially if the mage was just back from one of his little conversations with Zevran where he was learning what else they could try together. A thought struck him, and he stopped, frozen for a moment in surprise.

"Something wrong?" Jowan asked, sounding worried and coming to a stop as well.

Alistair smiled up at him. "No. I was just thinking how much I like it when you get bossy like this," he explained, briefly squeezing Jowan's hands in his to draw attention to the way he was pinned down by the smaller man. "And I suddenly wondered if this is what Zevran enjoys about Owen; the letting someone else decide. Being told what to do. Not having to decide."

"Oh," Jowan said, and resumed moving, though more slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Probably." He suddenly grinned, and looked back down at Alistair, one eyebrow arching. "You like it when I boss you around a little?" He leaned forward again as he asked, putting more of his weight on Alistair's hands, his eyes going very dark and intense.

Alistair's breath caught for a moment. "Oh, _yes_," he agreed. "Remember in Orzammar..." he started to say, then broke off, remembering how that evening had ended.

Jowan paused again, then resumed moving, smiling again. "When I made it so you couldn't move easily? And did things to you?"

"Yes. We should do that again some time. I _liked_ that."

"So did I," Jowan said, and bent down to kiss him hungrily. "Maybe later. Once you've recovered from this," he said, beginning to move more rapidly again.

Alistair grinned. "Once _you've_ recovered, you mean. Grey Warden stamina," he reminded the mage a touch smugly, winning a snort and another kiss.

"Once we've both recovered," Jowan said, his breath starting to come short now as he neared completion. "Likely our last night in a real bed until Redcliffe; best we enjoy it while we can."

Alistair laughed, and then after that neither of them had breath to spare for talking.

* * *

They were not the only ones making the most of what would hopefully be their last night before leaving Denerim. A floor below Alistair and Jowan, Arren was stretched out beside Morrigan, his mouth on her breast and his fingers busy between her legs while she cried out and shuddered in pleasure. His own sex hung heavy between his legs, hard and aching, but he ignored it for now, drawing her into a warm embrace as she stilled again.

Morrigan sighed in contentment, leaning her head against his shoulder for a moment, her hair tumbled loose around them and sticking to sweaty skin. She reached out and touched a finger to the ring strung on a chain around his neck; the ring a gift from her, the chain and the little carved halla-horn disk on it an inheritance from his mother. Arren smiled, and caught her hand, then lifted it up to kiss it.

Morrigan laughed, a low and throaty sound, closing her fingers around his and drawing his hand close to her own mouth, nipping lightly at his knuckles before releasing his hand. "My turn," she said, and began to work her way down his body, warm hands smoothing over sweat-dappled skin, her tongue tasting him and lips pressing kisses to him as she worked her way down to her goal.

Arren groaned, fists tightening, one clenched into the pillow by his head, the other knotting into bedding by his hip, as warm moist heat closed around him. She smiled at him up the length of his body, teeth shut gently against his skin just behind the crown, then closed her lips around him again, tongue tip probing at the slit in the end so that he gasped and writhed. She hummed in approval, slowly taking more of him in. He didn't want to look away, but found his eyes closing as he arched backwards, hips pinned down now by her hands, back and neck gradually curving until only the back of his head still rested on anything solid. He raised his legs as well, toes curling and knees bending, held carefully wide of her head, little noises escaping him as she worked on him with mouth and fingers.

He could not have imagined anything feeling so good before he met her, before Morrigan taught him the language of joined bodies. It was all so much more than anything he'd ever done before, what she had taught him in their months together, the feelings so much stranger and stronger and _better_ than anything he could do with inexpert hands to himself.

She was looking quite pleased with herself when she sat up a little later, delicately licking at reddened, swollen lips before moving to lie beside him again. He wrapped his arms around her, burying his nose in her hair, drawing in the warm scent of her, content for now just to lay there with her in his arms.

* * *

Zevran sighed and relaxed, spread out face-down on Owen's broad chest, his favourite though admittedly lumpy mattress. He was feeling pleasantly tired from recent exertions, the mage having had some interesting ideas for ways to pass their last night in such private surroundings, and it was exceedingly pleasant to just lie there, while Owen's hand stroked softly up and down his back, like a man petting a cat.

"You've very quiet tonight," Owen said after a while.

"Mmm. I was just thinking," Zevran said, and turned his head, resting his chin on his hand spread palm-down on Owen's chest, so he could look at his mage's face. There was little light, just a faint flickering glow from the fireplace, and Owen's face was mostly in the shadow of Zevran's own body, but he could see the glitter of Owen's eyes as the mage watched him in turn, hand ceasing it's stroking in favour of toying with the ends of his hair instead. "I offered you an earring, once," he said hesitantly.

Owen went very still, even his breath stopping for a moment. "You did," he agreed after a moment, voice calm, as if the strength of his reaction had not already been betrayed by his own body. "What of it?"

Zevran drew a deep, steadying breath. "At the time... at the time I claimed it meant nothing. And you refused it. You said... you said that it was more than just a piece of jewellery, and that once I was ready to admit that, you would accept it."

He could feel it when Owen swallowed before speaking again. "And?" the mage prompted.

"And I would like to offer the earring to you again, as a token of the love I feel for you," he said. "Which is what it meant even the first time, even if I could not admit it to myself or to you then."

Owen moved, his hands closing around Zevran's head, the mage sitting up enough to give Zevran a very long and thorough kiss. "Yes," Owen said, his voice rough with emotion. "You may give it to me now. And... I have something for you, in turn," he said, voice softening.

"Truly?" Zevran asked, mildly surprised.

"Truly," Owen said, voice warm with amusement. "Go get the earring."

They both rose, going to their already-packed backpacks and digging through them before returning to the bed, sitting cross-legged on it facing each other, comfortable in their nakedness. Zevran offered the earring first of all, a simple setting of some silver-coloured metal, a large faceted crystal hanging from it; as long and thick as the last two joints of Zevran's littlest finger, and shading from deep blue at the bottom end to an equally rich green at the top. Owen held out his hand, palm up.

Zevran reached out, feeling oddly hesitant, and set down the earring in the palm of his hand. "With all of my love," he said, voice a little shaky.

Owen smiled, his hand closing around the earring, and leaned forward to kiss Zevran gently on the lips. "Thank you," he said, then his smile deepened. "You'll need to pierce my ear for me," he pointed out.

"Now?"

"Yes," he said, and waited quietly while Zevran rose, fetched a good strong needle from his gear – one he normally used to repair leather – and knelt by Owen's side.

"Left or right?" Zevran asked nervously. Owen shrugged, and smiled again at Zevran, clearly leaving the choice up to him. Zevran frowned in thought, then suddenly smiled. "On the same side as my tattoo," he said firmly, and moved to where he could more easily reach Owen's left ear. Owen never even flinched at all as Zevran passed the needle through his lobe, then fastened the stem of the earring through the resultant hole, surprised to notice his fingers were shaking a little as he did so. He stared at his fingertips afterwards, reddened with Owen's blood.

Owen took his hands, ignoring the spots of blood, and drew him close, giving him another long, reassuring kiss before releasing him. The mage reached up and touched the dangling crystal, a strange smile curling his lips for a moment. "I am yours," he whispered, then his fingers lit with magic momentarily as he healed the piercing.

Zevran smiled thinly, still feeling nervous, his stomach roiling with stress. "And for me?" he asked.

Owen opened his other hand, revealing a small pile of gold in the palm of his hand; a chain, and a couple of polished stones, and some shaped bits. He picked up the length of chain first of all, the gems proving to be attached to it. "To wear in one ear," he explained, closing three of his fingers to hold and hide what was still in his hand, holding the short length of chain up pinched between the thumb and forefinger of each hand.

There was a hoop to pass through the lobe, Zevran saw, a tear-shaped polished red stone dangling from it, of a dark red stone – ruby, or perhaps garnet – like a drop of blood, and two cuffs along the chain, one at the middle and one near the upper end, to fasten around the edge of the ear so the chain would hang in graceful swags from it. The very end of the chain hung loose from the upper cuff, a small black stone cut in the shape of a feather depending from it. Zevran grinned. "I like that," he said approvingly, and offered Owen the needle.

"Wait, there is more," Owen said, and opened his hand to display what lay in it, a very simple hoop of gold, almost big enough and thick enough to be mistaken for a ring for the finger, though it was split open to show that it, too, was an earring. "You could wear this in your other ear, or... somewhere else," Owen said, voice going low and husky.

"Ahhhh," Zevran breathed out, and shivered, then reached out to trace the circle of gold with his fingertip, delicately, his eyes meeting Owen's. "Somewhere else," he agreed. "You know how to do it properly?"

Owen nodded, silently.

It hurt, of course, even worse than the piercing of the ear lobe did, but it was over quickly, thanks to Owen's magic, and the look Owen gave him afterwards was well worth the brief pain. The butterflies were gone now, replaced by a very warm feeling. The earrings... that Owen had accepted his meant much to him, yet it was still something that could be easily removed and put aside. But a touch of magic had sealed shut the ring he wore, and it was not so easily put aside or forgotten. It was, he knew, a way for Owen to mark him as _his_, belonging to the mage. And it calmed him, knowing the mage had no wish to put him aside, more than even Owen's acceptance of the earring did.

They made love again afterwards, very slowly and gently, the two of them thrusting against each other in the warm circle of their own hands. The ring changed how it felt, rubbing back and forth between them as it did, drawing appreciative moans from both of them.

Owen slept, afterwards, Zevran lying sprawled out on top of him again, head turned sideways to listen to the slow beating of the mage's heart. He was drifting a little himself when a faint sound reached his ears; the door to the room opening. He started to stiffen in fear, then relaxed again as Tria made a soft sound, already having learned that it was best to let him know who was there.

He smiled as she climbed onto the bed. "Lonely?" he asked very softly, not wanting to disturb the sleeping mage. Tria nodded, and moved to lie down beside them.

"My bed is being invaded," Owen said sleepily, his eyes still shut, and then smiled, cracking his eyes just barely open to peer sideways at Tria. "By mice. _Noisy_ need more room," he added, then slid away from her, turning on his side so that Zevran rolled off of him into the space between the two of them, startling a yelp of surprise out of Zevran and a brief giggle from Tria. Owen cuddled up against Zevran's back as Tria moved to spoon up against his front, Owen's long arm reaching to drape over both of them.

Zevran laughed softly. "_Mice?_"

"Shush, little mouse. Time to sleep now," Owen said muzzily, nosing into the hair at the nape of Zevran's neck, then sighed, breath gusting warm against his skin. Zevran smiled, feeling content, and slept.


	14. On The Road Again

The next day seemed to pass with almost painful slowness. They'd eaten a largely silent breakfast together in the kitchen, before Arren left for his final meeting with the Queen and her nobles. Wynne and Sten cleaned up the breakfast dishes and saw to it that their own cookware and utensils were properly packed away, while everyone else scattered to finish any packing that hadn't been completed the day before. No one left the house; they all wanted to be ready to depart the moment Arren returned, assuming it wasn't too late in the day. A few of them unpacked something to keep themselves occupied with – Wynne and Mara were both reading, Alistair was watching attentively while Jowan started work on knitting him a pair of socks – but mostly they just sat around and waited with varying degrees of patience, sitting and staring off into space, and looking around hopefully every time there was a sound from the street outside.

Lunch, accordingly, was a cold meal, the last of the good bread and a few odds and ends there either hadn't been sufficient room in their bulky packs for, or which wouldn't travel well. Zevran had Tria were just putting away the last of the dishes from cleaning up afterwards when the house door finally opened, and Arren could be heard calling out. "I'm back, everyone ready to leave?"

There was a rather resounding chorus of agreement from everyone, and within a very few minutes they'd all picked up their packs and bedrolls and gathered in the front hall. Arren said nothing, just looked around at them all, and smiled, then led the way out of the house. They paused only once, stopping briefly at Bann Teagan's townhouse so that Arren could leave the house keys with Gemma, who would see that they were returned to her brother.

They made as noticeable a procession leaving the city as they had moving from Arl Eamon's estate to the Cousland townhouse; more, if anything, Arren and Alistair both having become infamous since the eventful Landsmeet. Mostly the attention the two received was favourable, though there were still a few people about who clearly believed the story that the Grey Wardens had been responsible for the death of King Cailan. Still, they managed to reach the city gates without any real incident, and it was with considerable relief that they left the city behind them.

A short distance beyond the gates they reached where the road split, the North Road turning to travel up to the Howe's seat of Vigil's Keep and then westwards to West Hill before curving southwest to meet the old Imperial Highway that encircled Lake Calenhad, while the West Road ran westwards to meet the headwaters of the Haftor River before turning southwest to return to the Drakon and follow it up to Lothering. Or at least where Lothering had once stood, the town being nothing but darkspawn- and ghoul-haunted ruins as of last report.

While they were headed north into the arling of Amaranthine, they did not intend to take the North Road. It would be too dangerous, passing virtually under the walls of Vigil's Keep as it did, when they had so recently been responsible for the death of Arl Howe. Better, Arren had decided, for them to stay on the West Road until they reached the Hafter, then follow the Hafter northwest along the foot of the Tarcasine Ridge. Once they reached the Knotwood Hills area, where the river was deflected back to the northeast, they'd strike northwards to the North Road. There was a second road in that vicinity that went north to the coast by the Dragonbone Wastes before following the coast back eastwards to Amaranthine; they were to meet the merchant, Levi Dryden, at the crossroads, and he would lead them northwest into the coastal mountains where the old keep was supposed to be located.

They were all glad to be on the move again, and soon were spread out into a comfortable scattering of small groups along the roadway. Arren, Morrigan and Mouse led off, the pair both pleased to be out of the city and back into the countryside. Alistair followed along not far behind them, with Jowan at his side, Mouse sometimes dropping back to walk with them for a while. Behind them was a larger group, of Oghren, Leian, Mica and Sten, the Qunari looking even odder than usual when surrounded by the much shorter dwarves, but clearly busily engaged in earnest conversation with the two newest members of their group, a smile actually on his face as he listened to something Mica was saying. Wynne walked along some distance behind them, Mara walking along with her and Shale following close behind the pair, though it was unclear if the golem was talking with them or merely keeping pace with them. Owen, Zevran, and Tria brought up the rear, the tall mage flanked by the pair of rogues, listening with an amused expression on his face while the two talked in lowered voices.

Alistair looked at the mage walking beside him, intercepting a smile from him, and smiled warmly in return.

"Do you think we'll actually find anything at this old keep?" Jowan asked curiously.

Alistair shrugged. "I don't know. It's been empty for generations; I heard the merchant tell Arren that he got close enough to see that the keep was at least still standing, but whether there's anything there well-preserved enough to be worth finding..." He shrugged.

"Still, it sounds interesting," Jowan said. "Just think... a place no one has visited for... what, two hundred years?"

"About that, yes," Alistair agreed. "If I remember my history right, the Grey Warden revolt happened around the end of the Steel Age. Or it might have been the beginning of the Storm Age. Somewhere around there anyway."

Jowan nodded. "And Ferelden refused entrance to any further Grey Wardens after that."

"Yes, until about twenty years ago," Alistair said. "When King Maric gave permission for them to return, and Duncan was named as the new Warden-Commander of Ferelden." He couldn't keep a certain amount of wistfulness and grief out of his voice, thinking of Duncan. Jowan reached out and touched his arm for a moment, oddly comforting considering it was only hard armour his fingers brushed against. Alistair gave him a grateful look.

They didn't get very far that day, having left the city so late; only into the fringes of the line of hills that the Drakon River had carved a path through on its way to the deep bay where Denerim stood, on the shore of the Amaranthine ocean. But everyone was in a very good mood as they set up camp, apart from Shale who was passing comments about the numbers of birds audible in the surrounding forest. It was with great pleasure that they co-operated in starting a fresh batch of neverending stew in their footed cauldron, sharing in the tasks of peeling and chopping vegetable, herbs, and meat to add to it.

"So, shall we resume evening practice now that we are travelling again?" Zevran asked as he scraped the last of his dinner out of his bowl.

"Count me in," Alistair immediately said; he'd always enjoyed their sparring sessions. Others quickly spoke up or nodded in agreement, so once the meal was finished and a suitable area cleared, they began practising their fighting skills against one another.

It was good to have so much room to practice in again, rather than only enough for one group to spar at a time. To one side Sten was sparring with Mica, both with very intent expressions on their face. Owen and Arren were practising against each other in the middle, the mage's power surrounding him in a shield of distortion that looked like heat waves on a hot summer's day, and made it tricky to judge his exact position. On the other side, Alistair and Leian were going at it with sword and shield, Alistair finding his height a disadvantage when paired off against someone who could so easily take advantage of any openings at his legs that she saw. He was having to crouch and hold his shield rather lower then normal while fighting, and that was throwing off his movements.

Those waiting to spar, and those with no intention of doing so, gathered off to one side, watching the three fights and passing comments about them.

Sten's match finished first, and the qunari retired from the field, while Zevran went forward to try his blades against Mica's, the two rogues soon grinning in pleasure as they found themselves pleasingly well-matched. Arren won against Owen, but then retired from the field and urged Sten to try his hand against Owen, the mage needing further practice against large opponents and only Sten being larger in size than he was. The qunari was clearly uncomfortable about the idea of sparring against the mage, but reluctantly agreed, and the two were soon fighting with a surprising level of ferocity. Alistair and Leian finished their own spar, and withdrew from the field together, talking very intently together about shields and guarding moves and bashes. Their place was taken by Tria and Oghren, who fought cautiously at first – everyone, it seemed, was always cautious with Tria at first – and then with increasing vigour and speed once Oghren was confident that she could sustain her end of the fight.

They matched off in different pairings until the light began to fail, then retired to sit around the firepit and talk for a while, people retiring off to their tents in their ones and twos. When Owen and Zevran rose to retire to theirs, Tria immediately rose as well. Wynne looked up from her book, and frowned slightly in concern. "Tria, would you prefer to stay with Mara and I tonight?" she called out.

Tria looked back and smiled, and shook her head, taking a half-step sideways to walk closer to the pair. Zevran glanced her way and then took her by the hand, squeezing it gently before releasing it, the three continuing on to their tent together.

"She'll be all right," Mara told Wynne quietly.

Wynne frowned again. "Perhaps. I'd certainly trust Owen around her, but Zevran..."

Mara smiled at Wynne, wrapping her arms around her knees. "I don't believe Zevran thinks of her that way," she assured the older mage. "I think she's as safe with him as I am with Owen and Jowan."

Wynne snorted softly, then smiled. "I suppose I'll have to trust your judgement, my dear."

Mara grinned, but didn't say anything else. The women continued reading by the light of the fire and their spell wisps for a little while longer, then retired to their tent as well.


	15. Soldier's Peak

Five days, it took them. Travel along the road had gone quickly, but once they'd turned off to follow the river, it had become much slower. Arren had wanted to avoid meeting anyone, so rather than following the clearest trail, a tow-path for barges near the river, they'd taken smaller trails, winding up into and along the hills of the ridge. There'd been a lot of winding up and down hillsides, and where the larger streams and lesser rivers that ran down out of the hills and into the Hafter lay, the trails had sometimes gone though considerable detours, to reach a good ford or a place where the waters had been bridged.

Thankfully the trip was largely without incident, the lone exception being an attack by bandits. The bandits had been foolishly impatient, and hadn't seen the size of the full party before attempting to ambush them. The bandits had as a result ended up mostly dead when the trailing tail of the group quickly caught up with the rest upon hearing the sounds of battle. Only a few who'd been wise enough – or scared enough – to flee as soon as they caught sight of the remainder charging in had escaped, and none of them unscathed.

They reached the crossroads to find Levi camped right where he'd said he'd be, and it still being fairly early in the afternoon, continued on their way as soon as the trader had gathered up his few belongings. He led the way some distance north-east up the road, reaching the spot to turn off into the mountainous area to the west of it as dusk was falling. They moved far enough off the road to not be in easy sight of it, and then set up camp for the night.

Travel slowed after that, as they climbed up into the peaks, entering a maze-like series of narrow canyons and occasional caverns. Some of the caves showed signs of having been altered in the past, to make small passages wider or taller, or cut openings between caves that nature had not joined. Only some of it was dwarven work; mostly it seemed the kind of thing humans or elven miners might have done, though there was no sign of anything worth mining along the twisty route.

Levi had a map he'd made – a poor thing, not at all to scale, and more a visual listing of what turns he'd made at what forks and blockages than an actual map. He hadn't left any physical markings along the route, not wanting to leave signs that others might easily follow, and also hadn't always marked down changes of direction, having to stop once or twice to remember which way he'd actually gone at some split or intersection that wasn't on his list. It grew colder the higher they climbed; an unnatural cold for the time of year, Morrigan said; snow and ice remaining year-round on high peaks was normal, but this was not a high enough peak to justify it.

The last leg of the journey took them through a long ice-tunnel, where snow and ice had sealed over the top of a long twisty crevasse in the rock. The ice-shrouded remains of old defensive emplacements could be seen here and there; it would have been a nasty route to fight up, in its day. They emerged from it within sight of the old keep, topped with an impressively tall tower, though otherwise rather small. But still standing, and appearing to be in reasonably good repair under the cover of the snow and ice that cloaked its walls.

* * *

"I dislike the feel of this place," Wynne said, frowning up at the heights, one hand shielding her eyes. "The veil is thin here."

"That may explain the cold," Mara said. "I have read that such odd effects are sometimes found in places where the veil is thin."

The other mages nodded silent agreement, all of them feeling on edge with the nearness of the Fade.

"Well, we might as well get started," Arren said after briefly studying the keep..

"Teams?" Alistair asked, glancing aside at him. "Or all together?"

"Teams, I think. One to explore inside, one to explore outside and set up camp. Morrigan, Mara, Ogren, Mica, Leian and Levi to go in with me; Jowan, Owen, Zevran, Wynne, Sten and Shale outside with Alistair."

They entered the courtyard of the keep, coming to an abrupt stop and readying weapons and spells as ghostly forms sprang into being around them, acting out what seemed to be some part of the fall of the keep. Nothing attacked them, and the forms seemed entirely unsubstantial, but that didn't stop them from maintaining their watchfulness even after the ghostly shapes had faded away.

"A very thin veil indeed," Morrigan said quietly, once it became obvious that nothing else was going to happen.

They started to split up, Arren's group shedding most of the supplies they carried before heading for the stairs up to the door leading into the keep proper, Alistair's moving over to the right to explore the courtyard. As soon as they'd moved away from the gate, things began to happen again, only this time not so insubstantially. The hard-packed snow underfoot creaked and split and cracked, falling away as undead that had been covered by it lurched to their feet and into motion.

The two groups quickly became one again, battling the monstrosities lurching at them from what at times felt like every direction. It was a violent battle, but thankfully a short one, the undead quickly returned to immobility, mostly in shards.

"Nice little warm-up," Alistair said. "Sure you don't want everyone to go in?"

Arren eyed the keep again, then shook his head. "No, I'd rather not have so many of us together in there that we're getting in each other's way if we're attacked again. Better not to risk all of us at once," he said, then eyed the sky. "We'll try and be back out before dark; I'd rather stay out here where we can see anything going on around us than stay indoors, especially with the veil being thin. But depending on circumstances, it's possible we'll still be inside overnight. If we're not back by morning... use your best judgement."

Alistair nodded. "Be careful in there."

"Always," Arren said, and smiled crookedly, clasping Alistair's forearm before moving away, his selected group falling in around him as he climbed the stairs. They disappeared inside, the doors booming shut behind them.

Alistair looked around. "Well, I suppose we'd best set up camp. No one go anywhere alone; we don't know what else might be lurking around here. Shale, do you mind guarding our belongings while the rest of us gather wood and so on?"

"So the not going anywhere alone doesn't apply to me?" Shale asked.

"No, I'm pretty sure you can take care of yourself if you have to."

"Wonderful. I suppose I should feel flattered," the golem said, and took up position by the pile of packs and supplies.

It took them over an hour to explore the courtyard to Alistair's satisfaction, finding nothing else of any obvious danger. But then the place hadn't looked dangerous at all before the undead rose, so that wasn't any real guarantee.

An open-sided wooden structure to one side of the main steps, built against a wall dividing up the inner courtyard into different wards, was decided on as the focus of their camp. They cut out the hard-packed snow inside its confines in blocks, stacking them up around two sides of it to make low walls, then used their tent canvas to bridge the gaps between stacked snow and the wooden roof, leaving just one short end open. Fallen stone blocks were gathered and set down to provide a firebed. They scavenged bits of wood from inside the courtyard, and hauled in some fallen branches and lengths of deadfall from outside the walls, putting in a decent supply of fuel to last the night. They started a small fire burning, their cauldron of stew and a kettle of water heating.

The air inside the rough shelter was soon noticeably warmer than outside, but Alistair couldn't help hoping that Arren's group would return before nightfall, with news that they could move their camp indoors. It wouldn't take much of a turn in the weather to make their shelter an uncomfortable place to spend the night. More, snow blocks and canvas were not a very secure sort of wall. And with the thick coating of snow cloaking everything in sight, there was no way of knowing if other things still lurked beneath it, and might break out later. For that matter there was the more plebeian danger of predators in the woods around the keep; bears and wolves and so on.

It was growing dark, the group of them drinking tea to keep warm, and eyeing the stew pot impatiently, when there was a hail from the keep. Looking up, they spotted Arren and his group high overhead, looking over the railing of a bridge running between the main body of the keep and the tall tower attached to it. Alistair walked closer to the keep, waving a hand in greeting, then cupped it by his mouth. "How's exploring going?" he shouted up.

"Interesting," Arren called back. "Lots of undead, and more manifestations... and a ghoul. We'll tell you more once we get out. We've still got to check the tower; the ghoul claimed there's someone living there, before we killed her."

"Really? Living in a haunted keep? Must like an adventurous life-style."

Arren laughed. "Sounds like it!"

"Can we move indoors?"

Arren leaned back out of sight for a moment – doubtless consulting with the others with him – then leaned over the railing again. "Better stay outside; judging by the slowness of progress so far, I think we'd be best off finding some defensible spot to hole up overnight, and checking the tower in the morning. If things go badly in here, I'd rather not have your group swept up in it as well, since we'll be counting on you for a rescue."

"Great. I'll think of you while we're stuck outside here, huddled around the fire for warmth."

Arren laughed.

"'Tis not exactly overly warm in this keep either," Morrigan called back. "And you at least have hot food, while all we carry is trail rations."

"Yeah, we'll be thinking of that pot of nice hot stew you guys have while we're trying to find a fireplace that still draws, and enough scrap wood for a fire," Oghren called down.

"We'll let you know before we move on into the tower tomorrow," Arren called. "Keep a watch out overnight."

"We will. You lot sleep safe," Alistair called back. Waves of farewell were exchanged, and Arren's group disappeared back into the keep. Alistair's group retreated inside their shelter, where the stew was finally judged ready to eat.

As darkness fell temperatures plummeted, soon turning bitterly cold. A wind sprang up, strong enough to have them double-checking all the lashings of the canvas to the wooden frame, and also, unfortunately, stealing what warmth had built up within. It ended up being a fairly miserable night, everyone not on watch huddled for warmth in a pile at the end of the shelter furthest from the opening. Shale stood in the otherwise open doorway, blocking at least some of the wind, while the rest of them took short turns on guard duty, which consisted in large part of keeping the fire fed and trying not to freeze themselves. Jowan was the only one who had no great difficulty with the cold, simply changing into mabari form and curling up by Shale's ankles, his thick-furred back to the worst of the wind and paws tucked away underneath him.

"No fair that you can instantly grow a winter coat," Alistair muttered sleepily when he took over from the mage, as well-wrapped as he could manage without taking any of the heap of bedding the others were huddled under. He was already shivering with cold as he squatted down by the fire, adding another couple of pieces of wood to it and frowning in concern at how little was left. Jowan leaned heavily against him for a moment, nosed at his cheek, then went over to the pile of restless sleepers, where he changed back to human and slipped under the covers to join them, occasioning a round of sleepy protests and groans.

"I think I'd better gather more wood," Alistair said to Shale after a while. "What we have isn't going to last the night; the wind is making it burn fast.

Shale said nothing, merely shifting to one side so he could slip past, out into the darkened courtyard, a torch in hand to light his way. It was very dark out; not even the stars visible, clouds having moved in with the wind. Alistair wandered around inside the walls at first, finding a few more pieces of wood to haul back, but they'd already done a pretty thorough job of gathering any loose wood that was inside the walls; short of trying to chop apart one of the other remaining structures, there wasn't much left to gather in.

Alistair returned from his third foray to find Owen awake for his turn on watch, and quickly explained about the need for extra wood. "There was that big deadfall hung up just down the hill from the gate; I'm going to go and see what I can scavenge from that," Alistair said quietly.

Owen frowned, but nodded agreement. "Need the hatchet?"

"Please... if I have to chop wood, I'd rather not be doing it with my sword."

Armed with sword and hatchet, an accompanied by a wisp Owen had thoughtfully summoned to free his hands from carrying a torch for light, he went out the gates, and down the curving trail. The dead pine tree was where he remembered it being, fallen at an angle so that its top half was entangled with a neighbouring tree, leaving much of it inaccessible. Still, there were branches remaining that he was tall enough to reach, having to stretch up and work with the hatchet in short strokes overhead, until he hewed through them near the trunk and they dropped free. He cut several, then stuck the hatchet through his belt, turned back toward the keep, and squatted down to grab the ends of two of them, one in each hand, to drag back to the keep.

It was only as he glanced at the keep as he started back that he realized there was light visible at a window at the top of the tower; towards the far side of it, not visible from within the courtyard. He stood and stared for a while at this proof that there was indeed someone living inside it, then mentally shrugged and began hauling the branches back.

* * *

It took several trips to the tree to keep them supplied with enough wood to get through the night, Owen and Sten luckily both being tall enough to reach branches beyond what Alistair could. All the activity ended what little sleep the others had been able to catch, so that by the time the world started lightening to the grey of morning, they'd been awake for some time, and were all tired, cold, and cranky.

Wynne put the kettle on to make more tea, while Zevran and Jowan divided up some trail rations into equal-sized piles for everyone's breakfast. They were just distributing them to everyone when there was another hail from overhead; Arren's group calling down to say they were progressing on into the tower.

Alistair called back the news about having seen a light the night before, and again asked if they might move inside; it was still cold, and windy, and by the look of the lowering clouds there was snow on its way as well. Arren hesitated, then reluctantly agreed.

"Just to the hall inside the door," he called down. "That will at least get you in out of this wind."

It took them almost an hour to move camp, and the hallway proved to be without any fireplace, so that they had to settle for making a small fire in the middle of the floor, and hoping the smoke would find its own way out. At least it had a tall enough ceiling that the smoke had somewhere to rise to, so that even if it proved unable to escape it would be some time before it began to become a real problem. Unfortunately that also meant the room was only warm right by the fire, most of the heat it gave off rising up with the smoke.

Still, they were at least in out of the wind, and that alone made the room feel considerably warmer than the outside had. Being surrounded by stone walls and quite solid reinorced wooden doors instead of snow and canvas was also deeply reassuring to Alistair, even if Arren had said the keep had proven to be home to undead as well – and a ghoul.

The morning dragged by. Apart from more wood gathering, and a short hunting foray to find more meat for the pot – Jowan, in mabari form, scared up a couple of rabbits almost as soon as they'd entered the woods surrounding the keep – there was nothing really to do. There wasn't enough room to spar, and none of their gear was in any need of maintenance, all of them having taken care of any such care the evening before. Wynne settled down near the fire with one of her books; Owen and Zevran retreated to a corner of the room together, sitting on the floor wrapped up in both their cloaks and talking quietly. Shale and Sten settled to either side of the door leading further into the keep, Sten sitting with Asala across his knees, giving the blade a completely unnecessary buffing with a soft cloth, while Shale simply stood as silent and motionless as a statue.

Alistair was considering seeing if Jowan felt like huddling up under their cloaks too – just to talk, of course, it was too public for anything else – when all three mages suddenly started, Jowan and Owen quickly rising to their feet and staring upwards, towards somewhere deeper into the keep. Wynne remained sitting, but was looking in the same direction, book forgotten in one hand.

"The Veil has torn, or been opened," Wynne said in a worried tone of voice. "I'm not sure just which."

"Opened, I think," Jowan said hesitantly. "It seemed..." He paused, and gestured vaguely. "More of a _controlled_ thing, not some sudden tear or backlash."

"I take it this is a bad sign?" Zevran asked, looking back and forth between the three mages.

"A very bad sign," Alistair agreed.


End file.
